


Brittle Materials

by Huntress77



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Murder Husbands, On the Run, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-05-06 19:36:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5428178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huntress77/pseuds/Huntress77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The macabre adventures of Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham post-"The Wrath of the Lamb", as they reconnect with an old friend in an unexpected way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Cracked Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> I know there are a million After the Fall fics out there, but I felt I had a unique spin on what could have happened after that final moment between Will and Hannibal. Let me know if you agree or disagree, and absolutely let me know if you have any constructive criticism.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We'll need one A negative and one AB positive."
> 
> In spite of his desire to get back to the sofa as quickly as possible, Will turns to level a hard stare.
> 
> "You know my blood type?"
> 
> "Of course."
> 
> Of course. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. There's no point in asking where the blood came from. He is sure he already knows.

  


Will Graham wraps his arms around Hannibal Lecter and makes his final surrender as he lets himself fall. For the space of just a moment, he knows what it means to be suspended above the roiling Atlantic. Panic becomes difficult to discern from exhilaration. Will looks up at Hannibal's face and watches it spin as they tumble toward the end of their freefall.  He frowns. Something about this is wrong. He can hear the crash of the ocean getting louder, so surely they must be near the bottom by now? He squints at Hannibal. The man looks concerned, but not nearly concerned enough. If only he could-  
  
A tearing agony in Will's chest brings him back to reality as Hannibal catches his arms and keeps him from collapsing where he stands. "You've lost too much blood," he says. "We both have."  
  
They lean into each other's shoulders and provide mutual support on the short yet never-ending trip back into the cottage. Will notices how Hannibal guides them carefully around the wash of Francis Dolarhyde's blood, despite the floor already being soaked with his and Will's. It irritates him, adding precious steps to their journey, but he doesn't have the breath to protest.  
  
When at last Will drops to the leather sofa in the back of the open floor plan, he heaves a sigh of relief. It's immediately regretted and he reminds himself to take shallow breaths in future. Hannibal pulls a box from the end table and opens it to reveal bandages, bottles, syringes. Will has to smile. "Always prepared," he pants.  
  
Hannibal breaks eye contact. "We must first stem the blood loss."  
  
He pulls out a roll of bandage with one hand and tugs the hem of Will's shirt with the other. Will obligingly peels the blood-sodden fabric off and lets it fall to the floor beside them. Hannibal quickly, efficiently bandages the chest wound, then pulls his own shirt over his head. It takes a few moments to register in Will's fogged brain that he, too, simply dropped it on the floor. When it does, one corner of his mouth curls. He has finally laid the beast low.  
  
Will presses a wad of gauze to the entry wound in Hannibal's back as Hannibal holds more to the exit wound in front and wraps several rounds of bandage around his torso. Next, he pulls two screw cap needles from the box. Will eyes them uneasily. Hannibal is pale and his hands are already starting to shake. Well, what's a little more blood, when it feels like he's already shed gallons since they met? Between the two of them, they manage to get the needles into their veins.  
  
Hannibal points at the refrigerator and mutters, "Vegetable bin. False bottom," in the most succinct communication Will has ever heard from him. Then he sucks in a breath and adds, "Please".  
  
Will doesn't bother trying to stifle his groan. The world tilts once again as he stands and he steadies himself on the arm of the sofa before staggering across the room. A chill from the broken window hits the still-wet blood on his skin, shocking him out of the drowsiness that had started to creep in. The vegetable bin's false bottom turns out to contain several meticulously labeled bags of blood.  
  
"We'll need one A negative and one AB positive."  
  
In spite of his desire to get back to the sofa as quickly as possible, Will turns to level a hard stare.  
  
"You know my blood type?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
Of course. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. There's no point in asking where the blood came from. He is sure he already knows.  
  
His old friend, if he could be called that, is depressing the plunger of a syringe when he returns. "Morphine," Hannibal explains without looking up. "No point in suffering unnecessarily." He screws a new syringe into the needle in Will's arm and they watch the clear liquid disappear into his veins. If it occurs to Hannibal that this might be a reminder of past, more traumatic druggings, there's no sign.  
  
The blood, however, needs to be administered by drip. They sit in silence for a few minutes, waiting for it to do its work. Will's eyes stay fixed on the needle in his arm. Presently, he turns to Hannibal. "How many needles _have_ you put in me now? Do you even know?"  
  
"I'm afraid I haven't been keeping track."  
  
"You're lucky I still let you do it."  
  
"Every drug I gave you is a part of what made you who you are today. Without them, you would not be here with me now." He spares Will a fond smile. "So how can I bring myself to regret them?"  
  
Will still has enough memory of those early days to know this is twisted logic. And the more he thinks about it, the less it seems to matter. With the blood of a murdered stranger filling his veins, warming him, imparting strength, it comes perilously close to making sense. Someone died so he could live. They are part of him now. The guards he'd lead into the reach of Francis Dolarhyde died so he could have what he wanted. Who is he to say what's crazy?  
  
Hannibal is still pale, but some of his loquaciousness seems to be coming back. "We'll be safe here for the night, if Francis was the only one you gave this location to. Was he the only one, Will?"  
  
"No one knows we're here." His companion presses him with a sharp look. Will meets his eyes firmly and repeats, "No one." This seems to satisfy the other man. He fishes a nasty-looking curved hook from its sterile packaging and begins to thread it with suture.  
  
Will rotates and stretches gingerly out on the sofa, knowing Hannibal will want to stitch him up first. The gift of adrenaline has long since left him. He watches the hypnotic drip of the last of the blood being absorbed by his body. It reminds him of so many things at once: the drip of the Red Dragon's black blood from his hands, the trickle turned flood in his sink at the mental hospital, the slow rhythm of Beverly's melting life fluid. That last thought still aches, but not as much as it used to.  
  
Hannibal cuts his chest bandage off and peels back the gauze with infinite care. The man's hands are rock steady now. One day, Will is going to have to ask him how he does it. For now, he just says, "No antibiotics in the magic box?"  
  
"They were incorporated into the blood. It removes a step."  
  
Will starts laughing, even though he knows Hannibal is dead serious. He squeezes his eyes shut. "Please," he gasps. "Don't... make me... laugh." He arches in agony as Hannibal unscrews a bottle and pours the contents over his wound.  
  
"Better?"  
  
The doctor traces a line down from the wound and his lips tighten.  
  
"What?" Will chokes out.  
  
Hannibal refuses to look up. "It barely missed your lung. I can't even tell if that was his intended target."  
  
Will knows what this means. Perhaps fortunately, perhaps not, he's distracted from dwelling on his narrow escape by the first jab of the needle through his ragged flesh. Hannibal makes soothing noises as he forms one stitch, then a second, placing his hand on Will's shoulder to steady him.  
  
Will impulsively leans forward and kisses him. He feels a start under his body and begins to pull away, hot with embarrassment, but the hand clamps down and pulls him in. The kiss tastes like blood, his and the Great Red Dragon's. Nothing could possibly matter less. He half pushes, half pulls himself into a sitting position. Will's lips press frantically against Hannibal's, over and over, desperate to erase the stitches that are still being sewn A different kind of flush rolls over him and even he's not sure if his moans come from pleasure or pain.  
  
Hannibal separates for a moment, looks down to reorient himself to his work. He plunges the needle in again as he leans into Will's searching mouth. His lips are surprisingly soft and his tongue even softer, darting out to run along Will's lower lip and feel the wash of copper explode across it. At last he pulls back, maintaining the barest contact, and heaves a deep sigh. "I'm finished." Hannibal bandages his handiwork.  
  
The same tactic can't be used with the facial cut, so Hannibal simply strokes the uninjured cheek and works as fast as possible. Then it's his turn to try to stretch out. Easier said than done. As he rolls onto his side, he cries out and white knuckles the back of the sofa. Will reaches out and helps Hannibal ease onto his chest, noticing that his skin is hot and his body rigid. Is that pain or... Will feels a sudden surge of amusement. Is it embarrassment at showing "weakness"?  
  
"I'll talk you through stitching up the back," explains Hannibal. "I can do the front myself, if necessary."  
  
"I know basic field medicine, Hannibal."  
  
He repeats, "I'll talk you through it."  
  
Will cut offs the bandage and sucks in a breath through his teeth.  
  
"Is that bad?"  
  
"Depends how you look at it. The bullet passed less than an inch from your spine."  
  
Silence, then he can hear the smile in Hannibal's voice. "It seems fortune was kind to us both today. If anyone's up there, perhaps they wanted this."  
  
"Or maybe Dolarhyde just wanted us to be able to struggle."  
  
Hannibal, for once, seems at a loss for words. Will lays a string of kisses down the precious nobs of bone and cartilage that had almost been destroyed by the Dragon's bullet, then skims his needle beneath the skin with surprising delicacy. He can feel his patient's muscles jump under his fingers as he closes the wound, but the only sound is an occasional instruction. Hannibal reaches back to assess his work. He hums with approval and allows Will to help him onto his back.  
  
By the time they're finished, it's clear that neither of them is interested in moving. Will just wedges himself in beside Hannibal and pulls a quilt from the sofa back over them, trying to avoid putting pressure on both Hannibal's wounds and his own. With no more distractions, he finds it difficult to relax. Will tries to compensate by focusing on the heat seeping into his back, the steady drumbeat of Hannibal's heart against his skin.  
  
He suddenly asks, "What if we die in our sleep?"  
  
Hannibal's voice is already sleepy. "We won't."  
  
"How can you be so sure?"  
  
"Because we're strong, you and I. Don't you know that yet?"  
  
Will ponders this as he sinks into sleep, lulled by the distant sound of waves and the tickle of salt water in his nostrils.  
  
  



	2. Two for the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thus reassured, Will turns his attention to the matter of escape. The stolen car they'd traded the too-conspicuous police car for is at the bottom of the bluff. Dolarhyde probably had a car hidden somewhere nearby, but that, too, will be stolen property. How are they going to get out of here, in their condition? Will tilts his spoon and lets the lukewarm liquid trickle slowly down his throat. Maybe it would be more interesting to wait and see what Hannibal has planned? As soon as the idea occurs to him, his curiosity is piqued. He feels the beginnings of a cold buzz, the stimulation he so often enjoys around Hannibal.
> 
> "Is something amusing, Will?"
> 
> Will closes his lips over the spoon and licks it clean as he withdraws it. "Nope."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! This is probably the longest chapter I'll write for a while. There was so much "pipe" to lay in this one.

  


 

Will abruptly wakes to an awareness of savage, clawing pain. The morphine has worn off. He's pleased to note, though, that he immediately knows where he is and who he's with. There are no lingering aftershocks of home. The second thing to penetrate his conscious mind is that his bladder is uncomfortably full. He leans his head back against Hannibal's shoulder and groans.  
  
When he hears "There's more morphine in the end table", it dawns on him that Hannibal woke first and has been patiently waiting. The thought propels him to his feet with an audible peel. He looks at the film of dried blood and says, "I think your sofa's ruined", receiving only a twitch of a finger as response. This time, he injects the drug himself before tossing a dose to Hannibal. The sunlight flooding in through the cottage's banks of floor-to-ceiling windows is so bright that it gives Will a headache and he retreats gratefully to the soothing dusk of the bathroom.  
  
The pair sit on the edge of the tub and sponge off the last remnants of the night's misadventures. As Hannibal drags a towel across his back, he offers, "I believe I have some old clothes that might fit, er, acceptably."  
  
By the time Will has found clothes that even remotely fit and made the necessary adjustments, he exits the bedroom to find Hannibal sitting in a chair pulled up to the stove, stirring broth. The other man chuckles softly, which is the only kind of laugh Will has ever heard from him. "Poor Will." His shirt hangs untucked and loose, with the sleeves rolled up, to help disguise the fact that it's too big. It also hides the waistline of his pants, which is pulled up high and secured with a belt. The shoes he was thankfully able to salvage. In truth, it looks surprisingly normal. With his jacket zipped over everything, he'll be able to pass for a human being.  
  
"Truer words were never spoken," says Will.  
  
He awkwardly crouches to retrieve his gun from where it fell as he tried to use it to save Hannibal's life, along with Francis Dolarhyde's own silenced weapon. The possibilities of having a silenced gun tug at the folds of Will's brain, a brain still too sore to do much with such thoughts. Instead, he finds himself captivated by the interplay of morning rays in the great expanse of their mingled blood. As he slowly straightens, he sees the same phenomenon reproduced in the Dragon's bloody "wings". It's all oddly... beautiful. Will feels Hannibal's eyes on him and turns to see his companion smiling. Only then does he notice the smile on his own face.  
  
They sit across from each other at the kitchen island to avoid the draft from the shattered  window. The empty canning jar sitting on the counter implies that the broth is homemade. Will takes a sip and confirms it. Is he surprised? Not really, he decides. It's also a relief to note that it tastes like chicken. Will lost much of his revulsion at the idea of eating human flesh when he chose to become a regular dinner guest at Hannibal's house, but old habits die hard.  
  
"I'm afraid I don't have much appetite."  
  
"Nor do I. It's to be expected, especially in my case. But we have to eat regardless."  
  
Will knows he's right. As he forces a more or less steady series of spoonfuls down his throat, he watches Hannibal. If there was any residue of doubt that he'd made the right choice left, this is where it leaves him. What he'd had with Molly and Walter had been safe, cozy, comfortable. It had been peacefully distracting. He doesn't regret a day of it, as much as he knows he should for their sakes. That was what he'd needed at the time. What it _hadn't_ done, however, was bring him true peace with every part of himself. It hadn't liberated him from the banality of routine. He isn't yet sure how much of this he should confess to Hannibal. He can't help telling himself his new/old family will be all right though. The cabin was Molly's to begin with and he knows she'll take care of the dogs, regardless of how she feels about Will. It'll hurt, but eventually she'll move on. It's her nature. As for Wally, well, she'll probably just tell him Will is dead. There will be no sense of betrayal in his impressionable little mind.  
  
Thus reassured, Will turns his attention to the matter of escape. The stolen car they'd traded the too-conspicuous police car for is at the bottom of the bluff. Dolarhyde probably had a car hidden somewhere nearby, but that, too, will be stolen property. How are they going to get out of here, in their condition? Will tilts his spoon and lets the lukewarm liquid trickle slowly down his throat. Maybe it would be more interesting to wait and see what Hannibal has planned? As soon as the idea occurs to him, his curiosity is piqued. He feels the beginnings of a cold buzz, the stimulation he so often enjoys around Hannibal.  
  
"Is something amusing, Will?"  
  
Will closes his lips over the spoon and licks it clean as he withdraws it. "Nope."  
  
**********************  
  
Will is alone on the bluff, waiting for Hannibal to finish packing. This is a task they both seemed to feel was a one man job. He inches closer to the edge and leans over until vertigo sets in. Peering down into the void, it's hard to believe he could ever even have thought about falling into it.  
  
"I hope you're not thinking of leaving that way."  
  
His lips pull back slightly in what would look, were Hannibal able to see it, more like a grimace than a smile. Will lifts his head from the drop to take in the horizon instead. There's promise where the grey of the ocean meets the blue of the sky and it's far more pleasing to consider. The day is so clear he can make out a sailboat several miles off the coast.  
  
At last he turns to see that Hannibal has a lacquered black cane with Asiatic red inlays, currently being used to brace himself as he kneels to rifle through Francis Dolarhyde's pockets. His hand emerges holding car keys, which draws Will's curious eye. Whatever the design is, it involves Dolarhyde's car after all. Hannibal unfolds a sheet and lets it float down over the stiff body.  
  
"Why, Hannibal," says Will. "I didn't know you cared."  
  
"The Red Dragon's career was brief but glorious. He deserves respect." The sheet settles over the form like snow. "And he deserves my thanks."  
  
They set off down the road behind the cottage, each dragging a single wheeled suitcase. Hannibal periodically tries the car remote. The answering beep comes no more than fifty yards down. They both stop in their tracks as Hannibal clicks the remote twice more. Will is the one who spots a headlight flashing through what appears to be a dense stand of foliage. By the time they've cleared away enough of it to gain access to the car, he's sweating from the effort, in spite of the chill in the air. As Will lowers himself delicately into the passenger seat, he watches his... friend? mentor? lover?... take the driver's seat even more delicately. Hannibal is sweating too and his attire is much more casual than normal, but he still looks disgustingly dapper.  
  
As they drive, Will leans his seat back for better comfort, then decides against being unable to see where they're going and raises it again. They seem to be headed along a winding path down the bluff, to ever lower elevations. The area is still desolate (he has yet to see a single car on this road), but buildings are becoming a slightly more common sight. Will wonders if he should say something. Hannibal still hasn't mentioned last night's kisses, or anything about their future beyond the short term. He seems content to give Will time and space to figure things out on his own. Nothing seems appropriate, though. Everything he wants to say needs to be said in weightier circumstances.  
  
He finally comes up with, "That house, how long have you had it?"  
  
"It must be close to fifteen years now. I bought it not long after arriving in Baltimore. I must admit, I _will_ miss it."  
  
"More than your home in Baltimore? You know, they still haven't been able to sell it. It's just sitting there, collecting dust."  
  
"That's good to hear." Hannibal turns his head and flashes a, for him, unusually broad smile. "That house was my home for longer than any other in my adult life. Selfishly, I don't like to think of anyone else living there."  
  
"Does it get easier? Building an entire life for yourself, then having to start over?"  
  
"It's never easy. But it is always rewarding."  
  
Will's soft, unfocused eyes look out over the steep drop-off next to the road. He can't see the bottom from here, but he can see the tops of brush clinging desperately to the side, speeding past his window. "Why here, where everything's going to be gone in a few years? There doesn't seem much point."  
  
"Oh, I had my reasons for choosing this place." Will tries to surreptitiously examine his expression. Is this his way of saying, "Don't worry, I know what I'm doing"?  
  
Before long they turn off onto a maintenance road, which leads to the edge of a small bluff. Hannibal just gestures for help unloading the suitcases, then sends the Dragon's car, tires churning, into the sea. Will fairly burns with curiosity as they descend a foot path down the bluff face. His sharp mind wheels through several possibilities, but at last he can stand it no longer. Hannibal is enjoying his confusion too much, anyway, judging by his heightened level of smugness. "Where the hell are we going?"  
  
"Only a little farther."  
  
And so it is. They round a bend to be vomited from the mouth of the trail into a small marina. There are a few sailboats and motorboats moored here, but mainly it's full of yachts. Will immediately knows what it means. "We're going to steal a boat."  
  
"I assume I can count on your expertise in this area?"  
  
"I worked on a few yachts as a teenager, but it's been- Yes. I think I can pilot one."  
  
They settle onto a bench overlooking the marina. "Where are we going?" Will asks.  
  
"Why don't you tell me what you think?"  
  
He scrutinizes Hannibal closely, trying to read his mindset without actually opening himself up. "We need a place to convalesce. And it would be quite a coincidence if you had another safehouse nearby." Hannibal starts to lean forward raptly as Will's eyes brighten in epiphany.  
  
"We're not going anywhere. Just out beyond Coast Guard range."  
  
"Very perceptive."  
  
"What will we eat out there, stuck on a boat for weeks?"  
  
"The owner, of course. And a few things I packed." He pats one of the suitcases.  
  
Will looks away. He supposes he knew they would kill together again, and more than once. He just didn't think it would be so soon. As for the notion of cannibalism as a survival tactic, well, he had to remind himself once again. Old habits die hard.  
  
Hannibal pulls a knife from his coat pocket and places it in the palm of Will's hand. "Would you like to do the honors?"  
  
It's Dolarhyde's knife. Will knows Hannibal too well to think the choice of weapon is accidental. It is meant to remind him of how it felt when he used this very knife to claw open soft, assailable flesh. Nor is there a doubt in his mind that this is Hannibal's way of testing him, seeing how true his Becoming really was. Aside from the initial shock, does he have any reason to disappoint? He clicks open the blade and runs his thumb along the sharp edge, trying to imagine what was going through the Dragon's mind as it split him. As _Will_ split him. He suppresses a grin at the thought that even a dragon's hide wasn't thick enough to protect him.  
  
Will looks up to meet Hannibal's inquisitive gaze. "I think I would."  
  
****************  
  
After less than an hour of observation, Hannibal points and says, "There. That's the one."  
  
He's pointing at one of the larger yachts in the marina, which is currently being boarded by a man in khaki pants and an Izod shirt. The man is alone, and even if his clothes hadn't announced longtime wealth, his bearing would have.  
  
Hannibal continues, "Fortune smiles again. I had expected it to take much longer to find a suitable candidate." He's positively giddy now, as much as when the temporary alliance between Will and Francis had freed him from FBI custody.  
  
The rapid tattoo of Hannibal's cane on the boardwalk reminds Will of a clock ticking away a countdown. With a little imagination, the whirring of suitcase wheels even becomes gears. He feels the cold buzz again. His palms begin to sweat and he places them casually on his pant legs.  
  
The man is still on deck, rummaging through a locker, when they reach the yacht. He turns with a vague air of bewilderment as Hannibal hails him. "My colleague and I are location scouting for a film set to shoot in this area. We saw how lovely your yacht is and wondered if you'd be  kind enough to let us evaluate it as a possible location."  
  
Their target -for so Will already thinks of him- looks past Hannibal and his eyes alight on the bandage on Will's face. Will instinctively lifts a hand to touch it. "Please excuse our condition," Hannibal smoothly improvises. "We were recently in a rather bad car accident."  
  
A certain mask of guardedness drops away from the man's face at hearing this. "I'm sorry to hear that," he says. His voice is deep, soft and full of sympathy. "I hope no one was too badly hurt."

  
"One death, I'm afraid."  
  
"It's very... dedicated of you to be back on the job so soon."  
  
Will is mainly content to let Hannibal do the talking, but he can't resist answering with, "We love our work."  
  
Hannibal gives him a sidelong look. His face doesn't change otherwise, but he still manages to project an air of amusement. "That _is_ why we're here. We were hoping for a tour of your boat. If it's convenient, of course, Mr...?"  
  
"Gilbert. If it's for a movie, I don't see why not. My guests won't be here for another couple of hours."

"Perfect."  
  
Will takes in their surroundings as Mr. Gilbert leads them into the main lounge area. This yacht is really quite extravagant and well-appointed. He wonders if Hannibal Lecter can even imagine living with anything less for any extended period of time. Hannibal himself is maintaining a steady stream of chatter. The suitcases, he explains, contain scouting equipment. Yes, he would be fascinated to hear about where Mr. Gilbert found the cherrywood paneling. Will notices that he never brings up payment, likely on the assumption that it was the least motivating part of the thought of hosting a film shoot.  
  
As their host begins to wax eloquent about how good the skylight would look on film, Hannibal decides to get directly to the point. "May we see the galley?" He adds, "Several scenes will take place there."  
  
Will knows he should be nervous as they approach the large beer cooler. He is, slightly. His overriding sensation, though, is the eerie calm that he's felt before and after every act of violence since Randall Tier. Is this how it feels to be Hannibal? It's hard to make the distinction these days.  
  
Hannibal suddenly stops and nods to Will over their guide's shoulder, causing him to turn with a question on his lips. His question never escapes those doomed lips. Instead, it's aborted by the alarming crash of Hannibal dropping his cane, followed by the feel of his arms being grabbed from behind. His eyes widen at the sight of the knife in Will's hand. It's only at this moment that Will considers exactly _how_ he's going to kill Gilbert. He hesitates, then settles on stabbing forward into where he judges the heart should be. A strangled cry and a splash of blood are the results.  
  
"About an inch lower," Hannibal helpfully provides.  
  
This thrust hits its mark and they gently lower the body to the floor. "Our Mr. Gilbert seems to have been an outdoorsman," cheerfully notes Hannibal. "Good muscle. He'll feed us for quite a while."  
  
Now comes the hard part: slowly, excruciatingly maneuvering the fresh carcass into the cooler. They start with the lighter lower half, making the upper half follow more easily. Will leans against a counter, holding the injured side of his body, and catches his breath as Hannibal searches for a towel. "You mind... if I go... get us out of here?"  
  
Hannibal doesn't look up. "I trust you, Will."  
  
  



	3. Sleeping With the Frenemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will spends most of the next day sitting on the lower deck, watching the waves. At some point, Hannibal passes behind him, dragging tubes and plastic sheeting. He asks what they're for. When Hannibal replies that he's building a solar desalination still in case they don't get enough rain, Will shuts off. He's in no mood to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gentlemen, we have achieved porn! You can't write a Hannigram story without porn. That's the rules.
> 
> On a side note, so much for shorter chapters.

  


Will sits alone in the pilot's cabin for some time, steering what is now his and Hannibal's yacht out to sea. Hannibal had joined him long enough for them to check each other for popped stitches, but that was hours ago. He assumes his ever-perceptive companion means to give him some space. Certainly, there's not much else he could be doing on this boat.  
  
For that matter, there's not much for Will to do once he gets them headed in the right direction. This proves ideal. The quicksilver that shot through his veins as Hannibal helped him take another life has long since disappeared, leaving him worn out. It is indescribably relaxing to just sit here, in his soft leather chair, and pretend he is back on his long sailing trip to Italy. None of the cabin's windows open, but at this speed, that would just turn the space into a hurricane. It's enough to stare unblinking into the same endless horizon, hear only the rhythm of the engine, feel only the soothing vibration, and let his burgeoning memory palace do the rest.  
  
He had been running away then too, and looking for something at the end of his journey. As uncertain as his future still is, he at least has a much better idea of what he wants from it. After all these years of living day to day, that feels like progress. Will turns to take one last look at the barely visible shoreline, then lets his head loll back. A soft, briny headwind blows his hair back as his mind continues to slowly reorganize and his eyelids flutter shut...  
  
His eyes snap open, yanking him out of his reverie. He can't fall asleep here. There's not likely to be anything to ram this far out, but he still wants to put a few more leagues behind them before putting the yacht on autopilot. Will stretches his legs one at a time, stands and inspects the dashboard for a radio.  
  
As dusk approaches, Will and Hannibal recline in a protected spot at the stern, sipping more of the broth that had served as breakfast. It's not quite a sunset, but the salmon and apricot hues that begin to emerge in the direction from which they'd just come provide something to look at. The lonely whistle of wind along the planes of the boat fades as the autopilot cuts off the engine and they drift to a halt in a great expanse of grey-blue. Presently, Hannibal sighs, filling his lungs enough to break the silence.  
  
"I took the liberty of looking through our host's closet. I think his clothes will fit you."  
  
It doesn't even occur to Will to wonder how Hannibal became an expert on his clothing size. He just shifts to look down at his current ill-fitting outfit and lets out a sharp yelp of pain. He gratefully accepts a pill bottle.  
  
"The day may come when you'll have to learn to bear it," whispers Hannibal. "But not today."  
  
Will retreats to bed before the sun even sets. To _their_ bed. He feels an odd mix of excitement and trepidation at seeing the conspicuously unmentioned fact that the yacht has only one bedroom. Mr. Gilbert's pajamas do fit quite well, though. The fabric is thick and soft and satisfyingly expensive feeling against his bare skin.  
  
As he lies in a murky cocoon, on the edge of sleep, he's pulled back by the click of the door opening. Hannibal slips soundlessly into his own side of the bed and stays there. It could be that he doesn't want to push his luck, now that he finally has his hard-won heart's desire.  
  
That's just fine with Will. In spite of the pills, his body is soaked with pain, exhaustion and confusion, and he wants nothing more than to drift into oblivion.  
  
*******************  
  
Will spends most of the next day sitting on the lower deck, watching the waves. At some point, Hannibal passes behind him, dragging tubes and plastic sheeting. He asks what they're for. When Hannibal replies that he's building a solar desalination still in case they don't get enough rain, Will shuts off. He's in no mood to think.  
  
He does help set up rain collection tarps later. Afterward, they roll up their pants and dangle their legs in the hot tub. The crisp gusts of wind that cut across the exposed upper deck make full submersion tempting, but they still need to be careful not to get their bandages wet. As each breeze hits the surface of the water, a new mass of steam billows up between them like smoke. Will leans into it and inhales as deeply as he can manage, pulling his jacket tighter.  
  
"If you're cold, Will, we can go inside."  
  
"I'm fine. It's just soothing."  
  
"You didn't seem to sleep well last night. Not terribly surprising, given the pain you're dealing with." There's a pregnant pause before his next words. "You said her name."  
  
Will knows exactly who he means. He looks across at his fellow devil, through the haze. For a moment, it reminds him of seeing that face through the plastic window of a psychiatric cell. Hannibal's tone was quite casual, but his eyes latch onto Will's and don't let go.  
  
"Do you miss them?"  
  
No more secrets. "A little," he confesses. "I was married for two years. I got to be a father for two years. It was a lifeline when I was drowning. But part of me always knew I'd choose you. Never even as well buried a part as I would have liked to think."  
  
"You've done much to be with me. You killed for me. What made you change your mind?"  
  
Will tilts his head thoughtfully. "I guess I was sick of pretending." He doesn't elaborate, but his meaning is clear enough. He was sick of pretending he didn't dream about his ex-therapist most nights. Sick of pretending he didn't still think about how satisfying the snap of Randall's neck had been, and how badly he'd wanted to feel Freddie's do the same. "It was the Dragon who made me see it. Funny, how he looked at me the night he came to me. It was like he was seeing... _himself_ for the first time. And he was relieved that he didn't have to pretend with me."  
  
"Then we must toast him tonight."  
  
"What about you? What have you been doing for the past three years?"  
  
"There's not much to tell." Hannibal's smile is wry. "Looking at four walls isn't very exciting."  
  
Will kicks up a foot, lightly splashing Hannibal. "You don't think I'm going to let you get away with _that_ nonanswer, do you?"  
  
"Let's say I also did much to be with you. How about this? I want you to close your eyes and visualize what you would like to have happened while we were apart."  
  
He snorts, but does as Hannibal asks, leaning his head back into the next salty gust. His nostrils flare as they pick up the brine. He's transported back to that image of a lonely trip across the Atlantic... and then a new image starts to form. So does a smile.  
  
"Now open them." Blue eyes unlid themselves, with a familiar look in them. "What did you see?"  
  
A knowing grin is his only answer. Hannibal smiles back, then swivels to pull his legs from the hot tub. "I should start dinner."  
  
"So early? Is this a special occasion?"  
  
"In a manner of speaking. Would you join me in the galley?"  
  
*****************  
  
As Will , wearing an apron and rubber gloves, surveys the human form sprawled on the countertop, he understands the main reason he's here. Hannibal couldn't do this alone. Be that as it may, there's real pride in Hannibal's voice as he leans on his cane beside him, praising the incision just made under the ribcage. He guides Will through removing the abdominal muscles, occasionally taking his hand to steer the knife, then banishes him to the combined dining/lounge area off the galley.  
  
This leaves Will with an hour to stew as strange bangs and crashes emanate from the other side of the door. He knows the dinner means a lot to Hannibal. This will be the first time they've eaten mutual prey. In Hannibal's mind, it might as well be sex. So how can Will tell him a queasy lump forms in his stomach every time he thinks about what they're eating? He must never know.  
  
When Hannibal begins to bustle in and out, insisting on setting the table himself, Will turns his attention to the "skylight" of infamy. It's more like a glass floor that covers half the upper deck and most of the lounge ceiling. He reclines on overstuffed sofa cushions and watches stars wink into existence in the slate-rose sky, one by one. With the lights lowered in the room, the star canopy creates a powerfully warm, intimate atmosphere. His imagination is suddenly captured by the prospect of living in this heightened reality for as long as he can.  
  
Soon enough, though, reality does intrude, and Will finds himself seated at the dinner table. By the master chef's standards, the meal he serves is extremely simple. The meat has been sliced thin and grilled with dried herbs, served with a sauce that Will is certain is made from cocktail pickles. The sides consist of a basic rice pilaf and canned beets deglazed in balsamic vinegar. The one luxurious touch is an expensive-looking bottle of wine, probably taken from their ever generous host's collection. Even so, he can see what it must have cost Hannibal to prepare it. This isn't just their first "real" meal together. He's being presented with a labor of love. His anxiety ticks up another notch.  
  
Will sees no need to rush. Isn't it rude to not savor the experience? He sniffs his wine. He toasts the Great Red Dragon. He takes a few contemplative sips. He carefully cuts off a bite-size chunk of meat and swirls it around in the sauce. Finally, sensing Hannibal watching from across the table, he lifts the fork. As he chews, his eyelids drift closed. It's impossibly delicious.  
  
********************  
  
He lies in bed that night, listening to the hard rattle of rain on the hull.  The surreal reddish glow of the storm is all that's now visible through the windows at the foot of the bed. What's the saying? Red sky at night, sailors' delight?  
  
Will turns his head to look at Hannibal, only to find himself already being watched. He's an alluring sight, bathed in red. Will lies unblinking. He remembers the exact moment he knew he and Hannibal Lecter were far more than "friends", and it happened long before his rhetorical question in Bedelia du Maurier's office. It was in front of La Primavera in Florence that he understood: he was in love with a murderer and a cannibal. That epiphany frightened him so much, he made an instant decision to kill the man beside him.  
  
He rolls onto his left side and scoots up to Hannibal, confessing these thoughts. Hannibal's gaze never wavers. After careful consideration, he merely says, "How do you feel right now?"  
  
Will slides his arm over Hannibal's chest and leans forward until their faces are opposite each other, hypnotized by the red pinpricks shifting in the depths of Hannibal's eyes. Those eyes widen slightly as Will glances down at his mouth. He descends to graze it with his own, then takes a single full lip between his and tugs at the tender flesh. As he releases it, the tip of Hannibal's tongue unconsciously sneaks out to lick it. Will sees, feeling powerful and lustful in equal measure.  
  
He noses in the hollow of one cheek, his long eyelashes brushing chiseled cheekbone like the most delicate of kisses. It must tickle slightly, but Hannibal nestles into the touch like he did back on the bluff, his chest rising and falling. Will rocks his head gently back and forth, caressing the cheek, following the line of the bone. Hannibal slips two fingers under his chin and hoists it.  
  
A thumb comes up to trace the shape of his treasured lad's mouth. His touch is teasing at first, then it increases pressure until he brings a blush to lips that part invitingly. His other hand rests on the unbandaged cheek. Almost everything about Will is soft- soft hair, soft skin, soft eyes gazing down at him low-lidded- but his stubble pricks the palm of Hannibal's hand like a porcupine's defensive quills. That was the Will Graham Hannibal had met all those years ago. Now he pushes his thumb past yielding lips into the humid softness inside. Will sucks at it.  
  
Hannibal's fingers admire the strong line of the jawbone before sliding down to Will's pulse point. It distends and shrinks crazily as Will's heart hammers. He strokes, savoring the vibrations that hum down his fingertips. Hannibal tries to lift his mouth to that eagerly bared throat, tries to take the passionate pulse into himself, and succeeds only in collapsing back onto the pillow as he pays the price for his recklessness. Both hands clutch at his wound, fingers and toes curling in agony. The pain is so overwhelming that a distinctly helpless groan escapes him.  
  
"It seems we are sadly hampered," he forces out.  
  
"Don't worry," Will purrs, voice soft and seductive. "I'll think of something."  
  
He proves it by planting a trio of quick kisses on Hannibal's lips. On the fourth, Will's tongue penetrates to the gumline. Hannibal presses in harder next time, his tongue reaching out. Will whimpers as it makes contact with his own. Each unjoined kiss comes with a faint moan that he can feel the promise of crescendo behind, his lips slick with their mingled saliva.  
  
Will's good arm, supporting most of his weight, starts to shake from the strain. Heedless, he fumbles frantically with the buttons of Hannibal's pajama top, nearly rippng the lowest buttonhole as he frees it from it's fastener. Hannibal grips his arms to stop him. "Are you sure?"  
  
After everything this man has done to him, hearing that question so flabbergasts Will that he almost laughs out loud. "I've never been more sure of anything. Stop being so polite. I don't intend to be."  
  
He undoes the remaining buttons and collapses onto Hannibal's bared chest, the muscles in his arms finally allowed to go slack. The flesh is firm and hot as Will nuzzles against it, blissfully searing his tongue as he suckles over it. Hannibal finds his tiny sighs of gratification enchanting. What else he finds them is made apparent by the rapidly tenting bedspread. He drags the fabric of the top out from under him and throws it onto the floor without a thought, then tilts his head back, arching his neck. He shoves his hands roughly under Will's pajama top and roams with all the ferocity of a man who's waited years to do this. Will is fascinated. He's never seen such an expression of raw ecstasy on anyone's face before.  
  
Hannibal seems intent on exploring every inch of Will's body, leaving his top bunched up around his neck and shoulders. Will hardly notices the pain anymore as he wriggles out of it and discards it on top of Hannibal's. He pushes himself up to kiss the corner of Hannibal's mouth.  
  
"You've tasted me," comes the enticing whisper. "I want to taste you." He nips for emphasis.  
  
Hannibal parts his lips and offers them openly to Will, who takes the lower lip in his teeth. With a swift scissor motion and the subtlest of flinches from the body beneath him, Will feels blood gush across his tongue. The taste is metallic and salty and would ordinarily be repellent. Here, now, he can't get enough. He sucks in Hannibal's life fluid, running a finger under the edge of the bandage encasing his torso.  
  
With a grunt, Hannibal tightly closes his fist into the hair behind Will's head and pulls Will's mouth to his own so they can share. Low moans rumble up through his chest and buffet their ribs as Will grinds furiously against his hip, undulating the length of his body along Hannibal's side. He feels like he's boiling alive and briefly wonders if this is how a lobster feels on his steaming rack.  
  
Hannibal flings the covers off. Their sweat-slicked skin stickily separates while they kick the blanket off the foot of the bed, then reseals fluidly as Will throws a leg over Hannibal's so his thigh can move against swollen cock. A shudder rattles through Hannibal.  
  
He licks the nubs of stitches inside Will's mouth, producing its own shudder and a hitching moan. Will proceeds to drag bloodied lips down Hannibal's cheek, leaving a ruby trail, and that prickly stubble rakes Hannibal's neck as he nuzzles there, slowly working his pants down over the rise of his ass.  
  
When Hannibal feels Will's full length spring out against his side, he clutches at his hair and yanks his head back. He pulls until Will's neck strains and holds it, reaching down to free his own cock. Will fills his hand with it's satisfying thickness and begins to pump, occasionally rolling his palm over the tip of the glans before fisting back down to the base. He loves the way Hannibal's eyelashes flutter every time he does it. At last, Hannibal releases him in favor of reciprocating.  
  
He takes Will's cock in long strokes, squeezing so he can feel the velvet foreskin wrinkle under his palm, and Will senses the first of the electric thrills that explode at the base of his skull and race down his spine to signal his closeness to orgasm. Shivering, he props himself up one elbow, allowing them to look into each other's faces as their hands work. Hannibal comes first. Will bites his lip as fingers reflexively tighten around his hyper-sensitive member, but as the last foaming volley of cum squirts onto Hannibal's stomach with one last cry, the stroking resumes. He gazes into Hannibal's flushed face, sees the peace he just bestowed written across it, and lets the force of his orgasm bend him back from head to toe.  
  
The newly minted lovers lie side by side until the panting subsides. Will feels wrung out, sleepy and more peaceful than he can remember ever experiencing. He lazily trails his forefinger through the still-warm cum on Hannibal's abs. "Not bad. For an invalid. I think we're going to have to change that bandage though."  
  
"And your performance was more than satisfactory, considering your lack of experience with men."  
  
What makes you think I haven't been with guys before?"  
  
Hannibal turns his head, not trying to conceal his startlement. "I just assumed... I mean, you didn't seem like..."  
  
Will smiles at him. "There were only a couple, in college. I enjoyed it, but I guess I just drifted towards preferring women."  
  
"Never could entirely predict you," Hannibal chuckles.  
  
********************  
  
The next day, Will mysteriously feels well enough to rummage through sporting equipment lockers for a fishing pole. Armed with scraps of Mr. Gilbert's intestine for bait, he sets out to supplement their food supply as Hannibal curls up nearby, sketching him. Will is not a saltwater fisherman and at first has little luck. That changes when, in frustration, he cuts a lock of Hannibal's hair and wraps it with brightly colored twine to form a crude but effective lure. They have sushi that night.  
  
As one unchanging week bleeds into the next, the pair take to spending more and more of each day in bed, entertaining each other to the limits of their physical abilities. On warm days, they sun themselves. On colder days, they retreat to the hot tub or stay inside with a book. The nights are occupied with TV news, beamed to them from all over the country via satellite downlink. Some nights, Will persuades Hannibal to watch a movie instead, and is endlessly amused to see how taken he seems to be with "Inception".  
  
Hannibal himself, as befits his larger than life ego, seems more amused by the florid language used by reporters to describe their escape and mysterious disappearance. This is particularly true the night they catch Freddie Lounds appearing on a late show to talk about her "harrowing" personal experiences with the infamous duo. The stolen heart jokes alone are vintage Freddie. Will, on the other hand, takes perverse pleasure in learning that Jack Crawford has been suspended pending investigation. He appears in person only in brief clips, but on the large, opulent lounge screen, every crease in Jack's face is visible as he declines to speculate on the whereabouts of Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter or Alanna Bloom. Then there's the clip of Molly leaving the hospital with Walter tucked protectively under one arm and the other arm raised to ward off questions. When that appears on the screen (which happens far too often), it's a race to see who reaches the remote first. Both of them are anxious to avoid reminders of Will's former family, albeit for different reasons.  
  
Perhaps not surprisingly, it takes over a week for Francis Dolarhyde's corpse to be found. It takes longer still for the yacht theft and the disappearance of Mr. Gilbert to be linked to the Murder Husbands of increasingly popular Lounds parlance. Will nevertheless continues moving them a little farther up the coastline every few days.  
  
Just shy of a month after their Dance With a Dragon, Will and Hannibal's bruises have faded, along with the dark circles under their eyes. Their torn flesh has reknit itself and their stitches are a memory. Will lies on the sofa with his head in Hannibal's lap, entranced by a reality show that they happened to catch the last ten minutes of.  
  
He twists to look up. "Can you believe it?"  
  
"It's admittedly quite unbelievable."  
  
"I mean, it's not just that they're crazy. They're both _exactly the same kind_ of crazy, but somehow they ended up together. What're the odds?"  
  
Hannibal smiles fondly down at him. "The odds are incalculable."  
  
Will settles fully onto his back. The flickering blue light of the TV is the only illumination, but it's enough to see him brace himself. "I checked fuel levels today. There's probably enough left to get us back to shore, but not much more than that."  
  
"Our food supply is almost exhausted too. I can't say it's entirely unwelcome news. We haven't had a proper breakfast in weeks."  
  
"Oh god," breathes Will. "I've almost forgotten what an egg tastes like. My point is simply that we can't stay here any longer. And I have an idea as to where we might go, at least for the short term."  
  
"I thought as much. You've been moving us steadily in one direction."  
  
Will wets his lips. He knows Hannibal will appreciate the audacity of his suggestion, but he's afraid the older, more experienced fugitive will pick holes in it. And he desperately wants to see this plan carried out. "We can go back to the last place they'll expect us to be, Baltimore. To du Maurier's house."  
  
Hannibal is silent for several agonizing seconds, apparently contemplating the star canopy overhead. Then Will hears words he never expected to hear, much less so soon. "I love you."


	4. Two Can Keep a Secret If One of Them is Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal admires the figure Will cuts in his crisp slacks and maroon button down shirt. With the food and medical supplies he'd packed at the seaside cottage consumed, they'd been able to consolidate everything into a single suitcase and fill the second suitcase with Will's new wardrobe. Well, truthfully, _Hannibal_ had filled it. Will's taste has improved considerably since their first meeting, but in Hannibal's opinion, it's still not as good as his own. This current outfit is remarkably flattering to his form. The shirt emphasizes his shoulders and tapers down over his lean torso.
> 
> "You're staring at me again," says Will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, I lived up to the Explicit rating. This chapter, I deliver on the promise of Canon-Typical Violence. It's not necessarily against who you're expecting, though.

  


Hannibal admires the figure Will cuts in his crisp slacks and maroon button down shirt. With the food and medical supplies he'd packed at the seaside cottage consumed, they'd been able to consolidate everything into a single suitcase and fill the second suitcase with Will's new wardrobe. Well, truthfully, _Hannibal_ had filled it. Will's taste has improved considerably since their first meeting, but in Hannibal's opinion, it's still not as good as his own. This current outfit is remarkably flattering to his form. The shirt emphasizes his shoulders and tapers down over his lean torso.  
  
"You're staring at me again," says Will.  
  
_They had come ashore under cover of darkness, just before dawn. Will rigged an explosion in the engine room sufficient to sink the yacht. This was an act he'd found almost as obscene as eating a priceless painting. He had kept looking back when they made the final distance to shore on an inflatable life raft, at first just because it didn't seem to be sinking. As it began to dip, though, Will had been unable to take his eyes off the spectacle of their first home disappearing further into each swell._  
  
Now they're comfortably seated in a private train compartment, Delaware flatlands rolling past the windows like a red and yellow version of their ocean, and Hannibal is the one who can't control his gaze. He falls back on a classic therapists' trick: deflecting with a question. "Does that make you uncomfortable?"  
  
"It doesn't put me at ease. Assessing your handiwork?"  
  
"Are you referring to yourself or the clothes?"  
  
"Ha. Ha. Ha. You know, you enjoy dressing me way too much."  
  
"Not as much as I enjoy un-"  
  
That ribald thought is interrupted as the phone in Will's hand buzzes.  
  
_The very first thing Hannibal had done upon reaching civilization was get both of them cash and prepaid cell phones, in case of emergency. Since then, Will had used half his minutes surfing the web and some of his cash buying more minutes. He hadn't made any calls, though. The only person he would call was sitting across from him. And who would call **him**?_  
  
Will glances at the screen, then stows the phone in his pocket.  
  
"Will?"  
  
"It's nothing. Just an alert I signed up for."  
  
Hannibal shifts to the seat beside him in one rapid motion and wraps an arm around his shoulders. Will snuggles up, but still seems... what, exactly? Not worried. Not tense. Preoccupied. A strange, kinetic energy clings to him. As Hannibal holds him close, he closes his eyes and mentally transforms the rocking of the train into the gentle pitch of a yacht deck. This has recently become his favorite room in his memory palace. The chink in it, the thing keeping it from perfection, is the outline of the pistol Will insists on carrying in case they're recognized. It pokes his thigh like it's trying to remind him that for the foreseeable future, the peace they had enjoyed at sea is gone.  
  
The train's slow deceleration starts as it nears the station. Will exhales, his head bobbing under Hannibal's chin, then looks up at him.  
  
"Hannibal, would you trust me to be on my own for the day?"  
  
That was most definitely not what he'd expected to hear. "How do you mean?"  
  
"There's something I need to do today. I could meet up with you at the cabin."  
  
"I'll come with you."  
  
"I need to do this by myself. That's the only way it can be. Do you trust me?"  
  
"Would you at least like to tell me what's so important?"  
  
"It's a surprise." His eyes rove searchingly over Hannibal's face, as if it were a map that might provide direction.  
  
_No. Absolutely not._ "If it's important to you, of course. I'll meet you at the cabin."  
  
Will plants a peck on his forehead. "I appreciate your faith in me. After all, it's not like I couldn't go back if I wanted to. There's no proof that I arranged your escape. There's no proof that you didn't take me hostage."  
  
Hannibal smiles weakly. Will just stands and retrieves his suitcase from the luggage rack. "Don't forget to leave the signal so I'll know which one it is."  
  
********************  
  
Hannibal lurks in the farmers market down the street from the station for a while, hat flaps fastened snugly down over his ears. He can hardly fail to stand out in this fieldstone-and-brick small town setting, but that doesn't mean he has to make things any easier for potential whistleblowers. Only when he knows exactly what he wants does he move in to make his purchases. The freshly laid eggs and homemade cranberry preserves are his most triumphal finds. Tomorrow's breakfast will be a return to form.  
  
A cluster of empty summer cabins is carved into a tract of bayfront woods within walking distance. Hannibal strolls unhurriedly down the gravel road, eventually choosing a cabin with a dramatic view of Chesapeake Bay. As he picks the lock, he tries to imagine Will's reaction to the natural beauty of the location. Will has always loved the outdoors- an obsession Hannibal could never quite comprehend, to be honest- and he'll be cut off from it in Baltimore.  
  
The most important task needs to be done first: putting tape on the upper left corner of the door frame. This is the signal that he's inside. The next hour is drained away by his smartphone screen, where he searches through countless online recipes. He already knows which part of Bedelia he's going to eat, but he's determined to find the perfect preparation for it. Come to think of it, he's not convinced he has the perfect presentation either. Another hour disappears into the electrons.  
  
Hannibal decides to change clothes and go for a brief jog, part of the physical therapy regimen he's designed for them, before it gets too cold. He showers on his return, then putters around the kitchen for a bit, learning the layout. He spends time with Abigail in his mind palace. Finally, he can no longer ignore the fact that darkness is falling and he still hasn't heard from Will.  
  
Two attempts to call him go straight to voicemail. Hannibal chooses a book from the limited selection on the cabin's lone bookshelf and perches on an armchair, wishing he could light a fire. The risk of someone noticing the smoke, either by sight or by smell, is too great.  
  
Four arduous pages later, he gives up on the book and tries to call Will again. Voicemail. With a frustrated growl, he slams down the phone and retrieves one of his favorite pieces of reading material, "Paradise Lost", from his suitcase. Even the music of the poem fails to sooth him, though, and he takes to pacing the length of the room. He refuses to believe Will could have betrayed him. Not now, not after... everything. But is it possible that something could have happened to him? They're not safe in the isolation of their Atlantic anymore. Is his boy, for all his cleverness, in a jail cell or worse right now? An image of a body bag being closed over Will's ashen face is banished with a skill born of decades of tight emotional control.  
  
Just as he considers trying to call again, Hannibal's sensitive ears detect a sound they shouldn't be hearing in this abandoned enclave- the distant thrum of a car engine. He steps outside to better track its movement. Hannibal catches the faintest whiffs of oil and exhaust on the downwind breeze as the sound unmistakably gets closer.  
  
Back inside, he kills the lights and presses a small slit in the blinds with the tip of his knife, peering through. The headlights are visible before the outline of the car itself, crunching slowly down the gravel road. It slows even more on the approach to the cabin, then stops. As the black hulk turns into the driveway, he can't help thinking it for a few moments too many: Will has told them everything.  
  
Relief flash floods through him, only to be pushed out just as quickly by anger, when the familiar silhouette of his lover climbs from behind the wheel. He flicks up a light switch with the knife, scoring the underside, then drives the blade point-down into the windowsill before stalking over to lean against the wall next to the door.  
  
Will kicks open the front door and awkwardly enters, carrying a cooler in one hand and balancing a large plastic-wrapped box in the other. Hannibal glowers at him. He doesn't like being enslaved to his emotions like this. "Lost the phone already, have you?"  
  
He's met with a confused stare. "What?"  
  
"I called you three times. You didn't answer."  
  
"I had to ditch that phone. It may be, uh, compromised. You should get a new phone, too, if you called me from yours."  
  
 Hannibal is slightly mollified by this news. Will drops the cooler on the entry table and presents him with the styrofoam box as if it were a gift. "Open it," he confirms.  
      
Will certainly knows how to excite a man's curiousity. He's practically bouncing up and down in his impatience for Hannibal to see what's in the box. The object of that attention slides a fingernail beneath a flap of plastic wrap. The instant he breaks the seal, he knows why it was wrapped in the first place. It was to keep him from smelling what's inside. A ghostly red image floats across Hannibal's mind's eye.  
  
"Open it," Will urges again.  
  
 Hannibal already knows what he's going to find, but the sight still takes his breath away as he lifts the lid. Parchment-pale skin nestled into a bed of ice, on which a drape of orange curls spreads out. The head of Freddie Lounds stares sightlessly up at him.  
  
Will softly says, "Surprise."  
  
Chocolates. Hearts. Violins. And it's not even his birthday. Hannibal sets down the gift so he can close the distance between them in one stride and lay his cheek on Will's. "It's beautiful," he whispers into his ear. He feels Will shiver with delight as he wraps his arms around him in a hug.  
  
Will lifts the cooler's lid to show him the carefully wrapped slab of meat inside. "What should we make with it?"  
  
"Lomo saltado sounds good."  
  
"What a coincidence! I picked up the rest of the ingredients on the way here."  
  
***************  
  
Over dinner that night, Will pours out the story of how it came to be.  
  
_He had combed Freddie Lounds' recent articles for something, **anything** , that he could use to lure the intrepid reporter away from Baltimore. Needless to say, that was what had so occupied him on the train, not checking his email or changing his Facebook status. Gold had been struck when he'd found mostly baseless speculation about a series of Delaware murders._  
   
_Laying the trap had been as easy as texting his ambitious target to meet him for an anonymous tip on the identity of the killer. She really should have known better. Who would send her to a tiny town called Frederica, on a river called the Murderkill?_  
  
Hannibal's appreciative smile as he makes that connection for himself seems to encourage Will's words into a torrent.  
  
_He had watched from the protection of the shadows as Freddie entered the barn, overdressed as always. There was zero chance she'd gone unnoticed on the streets of Frederica. That was fine, though. He had not intended her to go unnoticed for long._  
_Her hand had been in her purse, indicating that she wasn't totally unaware of the possibility of danger. Will had let the moment stretch out as long as he dared, his head cold and his breath stilled. Then he'd stepped forward, hands raised palms out in front of him to show he was unarmed._  
  
_The sight of Will Graham melting out of the darkness of a rural barn had released a tiny but satisfying shriek from Ms. Lounds' throat. He'd  found himself once again looking down the barrel of that same odd, almost antique-looking pistol._  
  
_"Don't shoot," he pleaded. "I need your help, Freddie."_  
  
Hannibal's eyebrows rise.  
  
_It would've been simpler, of course, to stage an ambush, but what fun would that have been? She had to know exactly who was killing her and why. She had to have time to register the irony._  
  
_Will needed to be careful, use his persuasive powers to their fullest. For all that her ambition sometimes verged on suicidal, Freddie wasn't stupid and he couldn't count on her abysmal aim a second time. He distinctly remembers swallowing past the taste of blood in his mouth before "explaining" that after a month's worth of delicate maneuvering, he had gained Hannibal's trust. Will had finally prevailed on him to let him leave alone. Now he needed help to close the snare._  
  
_As expected, Freddie had taken quite a bit of convincing. "So you immediately thought of me? Why wouldn't you run straight to the police?"_  
  
_"Because they would **arrest** me. But if I go back and nothing happens, Hannibal's guard will drop. He'll know he has me. Then we can use The Tattler to lure him into a trap. Whatever I do has to be sure to work, Freddie. I couldn't bear knowing he was somewhere out there. Not again."_  
  
"Cunning boy," murmurs Hannibal, almost to himself. He's stopped eating by this point, one hand resting on a wine glass that never quite gets picked up.  
  
_He had managed a pained expression, but her wide, frightened eyes had still narrowed suspiciously. "You helped him escape in the first place."_  
  
_"Yes," he'd admitted. "But only to catch the Tooth Fairy. If I'd thought anyone would get hurt, I wouldn't have done it."_  
  
_The point of the gun had never wavered for a split second, but Will could see she was thinking it over, trying to find reasons not to trust him._  
  
_"Look, I know it's a lot to ask, but I'm offering a lot too. You'll be a hero. The woman who caught Hannibal the Cannibal." He delivered the coup de grace. "Remember what happened the last time you didn't trust me?"_  
  
_Freddie's extended arm had dropped slowly, as if dragged down by the weight at its end. But she had let him cautiously approach and sit next to her as he described where he'd been for the past month, how he and Hannibal had evaded the authorities. The need to tell her as much of the truth as possible was compulsive._  
  
_Though Will had been sitting a couple of feet away, he could smell hairspray. Was this the scent that had caused so much trouble? Or something his average sensory apparatus will never be able to detect, no matter how hard he tries?_  
  
His audience shares a somewhat unhelpful, "It was more a unique combination of scents."  
  
_Will's heart had made a single strange, painful thud as he'd slipped up behind Freddie and placed a hand on either side of her head,  her curls stiff and scratchy with that hairspray against his palms.Those two points of contact were enough for him to feel her entire body clench as she realized she'd just made the biggest mistake of a life full of poor choices. In that moment, he almost felt sorry for the woman._  
  
_But Freddie Lounds had tormented him. Freddie Lounds had exploited him, Abigail, Hannibal. Freddie Lounds had caused Abigail's death, however inadvertently._  
  
_Freddie Lounds deserved to die._  
  
_"I should have done this a long time ago," he'd whispered._  
  
_To her credit, she had no intention of going down without a fight. She'd thrown a wild elbow back at Will's head. The untrained blow was easily dodged, then Will had felt it- the sharp **pop** of the vertebrae in Freddie's neck coming unmoored beneath his hands. It felt exactly like it had in his countless fantasies._  
  
Will's eyes shine euphorically overbright at the memory. Hannibal's own flick down to their dinner. The candles have started to gutter, and the hard shadows cast on his face make it difficult to discern when his lips take on the slightest curve. "What did you do with the rest of Ms. Lounds?"  
  
Will coyly keeps his gaze on his plate as he answers. "If I told you _that_ , it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?"


	5. The Bride of Frankenstein

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet she still sits behind her desk, her right hand sifting through a stack of notes, the left pensively rolling a snifter of brandy between its fingers. All of her patients since Hannibal (with the sole exception of Graham) have been garden variety depressives, neurotics and maladjusts. Safe. Boring. The famous Dr. du Maurier is immensely, insufferably bored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at last, the infamous amputated leg. I think it's probably the longest and most difficult to write chapter yet. Cheers!

  


Each gust of warm breath crystallizes in a plume in front of Will as he leans forward to rest his hands on the low brick safety divider. Winter has come with a vengeance, as demonstrated by the layer of snow his gloved fingers sink into. They'd passed through parts of Baltimore where the fresh blanket had already turned varying shades of gray and brown, churned by hundreds of rubber-clad feet, the remaining patches of white unable to cloak dilapidation. This neighborhood, though, might as well be on a different planet.  
  
The fine powder still lies inches deep over every exposed surface, pristine and perfect. Even the street is snowbound. Early afternoon brilliance is bounced and intensified until it forces him to squint.  
  
The last thing Will wants to ponder at the moment is the age-old schism between rich and poor. He directs his question at the binoculars glued to Hannibal's face. "Is it clear? Can we go now?"  
  
 Hannibal smiles and pans the binoculars a fraction of an inch. "Is my company really so tiresome?"  
  
"If I didn't love you, I wouldn't be freezing my ass off on a roof with you. But there's a nice warm house right down there that I'd rather get to sooner than later." After a pause to consider his next words, he leans over and adds, "And don't think I don't know when you're being passive aggressive."  
  
The pair are spending part of their afternoon surveilling this perfect little street lined with elegant houses, making sure law enforcement hasn't decided Bedelia du Maurier is worth watching. Far too much of their afternoon, if you ask Will.  
  
"Eager boy," Hannibal teases. "You need to learn patience if you're to reach your full potential." He throws his shoulders back, somehow improving already ramrod posture. "I find the air invigorating, personally, after trying to sleep in that bed."  
  
Will's nose scrunches, brow furrowed. "I always thought of cedar as a pleasant smell, but I'm pretty sure that bed gave me a headache."  
  
"Imagine what it was like for _me_. If it weren't so cold, I would have opened every window in the cabin."  
  
A mock-consoling hand clamps to Hannibal's shoulder, then darts up to steal away the binoculars. "Let's see what there is to see, then." He sweeps his arm over the frosted ledge to create a spot for his elbows to rest.  
  
"We can rule out houses with more than one car in the driveway, unless the driveway is double width. They wouldn't want to be boxed in." Will narrows one eye behind the lens. He's starting to enjoy showing off. "We can rule out houses with a large number of uncovered windows. Can't show the whole neighborhood what they're doing."  
  
He stops as his cone of vision passes back over Bedelia's house. Most of her windows, unsurprisingly, are covered, but a sliver of office is visible through a gap in the curtains. The woman herself is seated at her desk, a slice of her face exposed to him. She looks calm and secure.  
  
_They had arrived in Baltimore early in the morning, as the city slept. Being national news was restrictive enough, but in their home city, there would be few people who weren't familiar with the faces of Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham._  
  
_By then, Freddie's car was just one more heap collecting ice at the bottom of the Chesapeake Bay. The subway station was as deserted as they'd hoped- almost. A man whose belly peeked out from under a ratty Red Sox sweatshirt had shot them a contemptuous look as their fingertips brushed. He didn't seem to recognize them, though. He would hardly have sat there shaking his round head if he knew who he was insulting._  
  
_Hannibal had deliberately slipped his fingers between Will's, grasping his hand as they left. But instead of going directly to their destination, there had been many hours of preparation and waiting._  
  
Now Will is here, finally, spying his unsuspecting quarry like a hunter through a rifle scope. As she leans forward and disappears from view, Hannibal's disembodied voice urges, "Go on."  
  
He clears his throat. "There's been no repetition of cars, so they're not patrolling. As for cars parked on the street-" Will suddenly stops. A turn of his head reveals that Hannibal is watching not the street below, but him, with an expression somewhere between amused and smug. "But I'm not telling you anything you don't know. You knew she wasn't being watched long ago, didn't you?"  
  
"Only thirty-one minutes."  
  
"Godda-"  
  
In a movement so fast Will barely has time to register it, Hannibal steals his binoculars back.  
  
******************  
  
Bedelia's work for the day is finished. One of the perks of private practice is that you get to set your own hours and only on rare occasions does she consent to see a patient after 4PM. The last time she'd made such an exception was for Will Graham. _That_ experience certainly hadn't left her inclined to make any more.  
  
Yet she still sits behind her desk, her right hand sifting through a stack of notes, the left pensively rolling a snifter of brandy between its fingers. All of her patients since Hannibal (with the sole exception of Graham) have been garden variety depressives, neurotics and maladjusts. Safe. Boring. The famous Dr. du Maurier is immensely, insufferably bored.  
  
All that comes to an end in the most jarring way imaginable when she looks up and sees who's standing in the main entrance to her office. Looming, really. As they stare silently at each other, some distant part of Bedelia's brain can appreciate Hannibal's presentation.  
  
Then she opens the righthand desk drawer.  
  
Will dashes up from behind and slams the drawer on her hand, sending the brandy splashing across the mirrored surface of the desktop. Much of it sinks into the pile of paper in front of her, ink bleeding and running. The lovely, delicate snifter rolls off the edge and shatters.  
  
In a flash, Hannibal is across the room and clamping a damp cloth over Bedelia's nose and mouth. Will fishes a gun from the drawer and stores it in his coat pocket as Bedelia fights the need to gasp in agony, drawing sickly sweet fumes deep into her lungs. Her heels scrape frantically over the floor, trying to push away from that deadly cloud, only to ram the chair back into Will's body. She reaches to claw at the hand holding the cloth and finds her wrist firmly controlled.  
  
Hannibal's eyes shut in an oddly rapturous gesture as the smells of her brandy and her perfume- the two scents he most associates with Bedelia- flood his twitching nostrils. When the inevitable eye roll and slump happen, he leans in just a couple of inches to more fully absorb them.  
  
Will's curious gaze is felt before Hannibal opens his eyes to meet it.  
  
"Where were you?"  
  
"Many places." He nods at the cloth he still holds over Bedelia's face. "Ether was used as an anesthetic before more sophisticated drugs were available. No reason it can't serve the same purpose for us."  
  
Satisfied that his former therapist won't wake at an inconvenient moment, Hannibal folds what Will now recognizes as a handkerchief and bags it, hands carefully gloved to shield them from chemical contact.  
  
"You know, I don't think I've ever seen anyone but you with a handkerchief. I don't even know where you would buy one."  
  
"I order them from a clothier in Milan."  
  
"Of course you do." Will gently eases the drawer shut and pulls the limp form back from the desk. A quick pat of his coat pocket hints at where he's going. "Serious gun she tried to pull on you. It'll make a good addition to my collection."  
  
Hannibal has already set to work cleaning up the mess he'd made. The papers have sponged up their limit and amber liquid has begun to pool above the top sheet. "That is something I'll have to take your word for."  
  
He has yet to find a way to make Hannibal understand his reliance on firearms. He always agrees when Will points out the utility of guns against enemies who are themselves armed with guns. He'd even agreed to learn how to shoot, back on the yacht, but frankly had seemed more interested in excuses for his teacher to press up behind and guide his movements. Will is never left with the impression that Hannibal considers guns beneath him. It's quite simply that the distance they put between him and a victim leaves him cold.  
  
Nevertheless, Will adds Bedelia's semi-automatic to his growing arsenal, right alongside his own FBI-issued black version and the weapons donated by Dolarhyde and Lounds. If the police come knocking at their door, he has to be prepared to defend them both.  
  
The freezer releases a small pocket of winter as he opens the door. Its big brother outside had preserved the severed head of Freddie Lounds excellently, but he now faces the unfamiliar task of making space for it indoors. Will can't remember ever clearing out his shoebox of a freezer when he lived alone, and Molly- He firmly pushes the thought aside and gets to work. It's a spacious, luxe appliance, yet remarkably cluttered.  
  
As he stacks aluminum pans on the island, it becomes clear that at least half of the freezer's contents are pre-made meals. None of them will be needing those, so into a large garbage bag they go.  
  
It takes some adjustments to allow the air to flow freely around the box, allow it to turn the raw material for his current project into a solid chunk of ice. With this accomplished, the instinctual, unspoken communication that has sprung up between himself and Hannibal leads him directly to the living room, which provides maximum light and space for what must happen next.  
  
Sure enough, their deeply unconscious hostess is stretched across a sheet of plastic in the middle of the room, all lights aimed at her, a couple of pieces of furniture pushed back. Her skirt is hiked to accommodate the scalpel and saw, but Will notes that it's been carefully draped and tucked to preserve her modesty. He's always mildly surprised to see Hannibal's warped sense of honor in circumstances like these, even though it's one of the things Will loves about him.  
  
He sits and watches Hannibal finish his prep. As the amputation begins, Will moves closer to satisfy his curiosity. The doctor's hands work swiftly, with the skill of not merely a trained surgeon, but a man who's done this too many times to remember. He peels back flaps of skin to expose muscle, which he then slices like a sushi chef, clamping off veins and nerves as he goes.  
  
The demonstration is interrupted by a knock at the front door. Hannibal holds up blood-slicked white latex as a way of asking Will to take care of it.  
  
Will stops a few feet from the closed door and calls out, "Who is it?"  
  
"Grocery delivery."  
  
"I'm not dressed. Just leave it on the stoop, please."  
  
A few beats pass in silence, long enough that he's about to repeat himself, when he hears the scrape of something heavy settling to the concrete on the other side of the barrier. Only when he can see tail lights through the foyer window does Will lean outside to grab two large boxes of supplies.  
  
"Are you replacing everything in the kitchen?" he asks, only somewhat jokingly, as he passes Hannibal on the way to said room.  
  
Hannibal's poker-faced response is, "I never trust anyone's taste but my own, given a choice."  
  
Will stores the perishables in the refrigerator, but visions of Hannibal painstakingly rearranging everything prompt him to leave the rest on the island's tiled expanse.  
  
The kitchen is also as good a place as any to start a room by room search of the house. The aim of his quest: any additional weapons or cell phones Bedelia may have stashed away. It's admittedly embarrassing, it never having occurred to him to check. Not until Hannibal had pointed out that her extreme intelligence had already allowed her to escape him once did Will realize that he hadn't really thought of her that way for years.  
  
Truthfully, Will is starting to feel a bit useless as he paws through their latest mark's cabinets and cushions, sifts through the detritus of her life. Surgery is not his area of expertise. Neither is cooking. He certainly knows nothing at all about dressing a woman for a formal occasion. Even if that weren't so, he feels squeamish about undressing her; surprising considering how comfortable he is with the idea of cannibalizing her. Hannibal and Bedelia had once been lovers (of a sort). It seems right that he should be the one to do it.  
  
As he begins a search of the now vacant living room, Will nurses a growing suspicion that Hannibal had brought it up as much to give him something to do as because of the task's actual importance. And he'd even been made to feel it was partly his idea. Will should feel bruised and manipulated, but can only muster a faint warmth deep in his belly. One way or another, Hannibal is always looking out for his other half.  
  
A familiar case catching his eye, Will pauses at the DVD rack, trying to pinpoint what he'd recognized so intimately as to bring him to an immediate halt. A grin spreads across his face, slowly, as the information that it was a copy of "Inception" sinks into his brain. Except this is the Bluray. Even Gilbert hadn't had the Bluray. Perhaps the two head shrinkers had more in common than he'd suspected.  
  
At his leisure, he wanders into the kitchen to peer over Hannibal's shoulder as lithe, deft hands deconstruct Bedelia's leg into something fit for a main dish. The foot has already been removed and the skin follows at a steady pace, neatly folded into rectangles and saved between moist towels for some arcane purpose. Will feels a cool sort of amusement as he catches himself admiring the light marbling of the meat, as if it were a leg of lamb.  
  
Before he has time to ponder how Pre-transformation Will Graham would have handled that reality, Hannibal lifts his shoulders and rocks his head from side to side, trying to ease some elusive kink. He emits what can almost be described as a purr as Will rubs the back of his neck.  
  
"That's a long time to spend bent over."  
  
"You won't hear me complaining," sighs Hannibal, and closes his eyes as Will's fingers massage alongside his spine, working the connective tissue. When he opens them, a pair of earrings are dangling over his cutting board.  
  
"Freddie was wearing them. How do you think they'd look on Bedelia?"  
  
Hannibal leans back to better focus and Will moves very slightly forward. "They're in surprisingly good taste for Ms. Lounds."  
  
"That's why I noticed them."  
  
" _I've_ noticed something."  
  
"Have you?"  
  
"I've noticed that the congregation of a church in a small town in Delaware got a nasty shock this morning. A charred torso, it was described as, with a jacket draped over its shoulders. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"  
  
Will only grins into his shoulder and shakes the earrings impatiently.  
  
"I can make them fit. Would you please put them by her bed?" Hannibal slips his fingers under the slit he cut into the top of the haunch and starts the laborious process of peeling flesh away from the bone. "And I'd appreciate it if you would stay away from the kitchen. I want dinner to be a surprise."  
  
*****************************  
  
Dr. du Maurier is still staring listlessly at the grand spectacle of her leg as they carry in the remaining dishes. At the sight of the trussed limb, Will has an instantaneous flash of insight. "It's a caterpillar. Isn't it?"  
  
Hannibal just lets satisfaction tug lightly at the corner of his mouth. His fingers move over the table with graceful precision, straightening silverware, nudging a tureen into some perfect orientation only he can perceive. As he works his way down the table, he says, "You seem to have lost your fork, Bedelia." He doesn't look at her. "How could that have happened?"  
  
She pushes back from the table to show them red pinpricks encircling her stump. They're just beginning to scab. "I... I wanted to see how much sensation I had left." She holds up the fork and studies it as if just noticing it was there. "I think I need a new fork."  
  
Will fetches a new fork. On his return, Hannibal is transferring a disc of carved meat to Bedelia's plate, delicately balanced between a knife and a serving fork. Bedelia eyes the gooey swirl in the center. Her lips part as the meaning of the image finally penetrates the drugged fog over her brain.  
  
"You replaced my bone with dried fruit."  
  
"Some sweetness to balance the bitterness, I assume?" Will asks.  
  
"It would be impolite in the extreme to confirm such a thing." Maybe it's just the candles, but Hannibal's eyes seem to have a wicked glint as he peers up from the serving platter.  
  
Bedelia's lip curls involuntarily and she produces the closest thing to a snort that either has yet heard from her. "I haven't been keeping up with my seafood diet. My apologies."  
  
Will can't help rubbing a little more salt into the wound. "Sometimes we must make do with what we have."  
  
"Truly." Her elegantly extended forefinger comes to rest on the new fork. "I need a knife. To cut... it."  
  
As Hannibal patiently cuts the meat into bite-size chunks for her, her eyes return to the grisly centerpiece. Will gets the impression that she can't bear to see the actual moment of the flesh's violation. Personally, a month's worth of exposure therapy has left him with no such hang-ups. He thinks their main course looks wonderful. It _smells_ even more mouthwatering.  
  
Will busies himself pouring the wine. The neck of the bottle hasn't even cleared the rim of Bedelia's glass before she snatches it away with a rasping ring and takes a long draught.  
  
"Pace yourself," chides Hannibal. "Half a glass is all you're getting tonight. There are too many drugs in your system to allow more."  
  
Now fortified psychologically, if not chemically, Bedelia makes a visible effort to collect her mental powers as her dinner guests seat themselves. She spears a single cube of meat and looks from one to the other, fork hovering in front of exquisitely delineated lips, milking the moment.  
  
Will glances at the foot of the table, where Abigail has appeared in a fiery red dress. She watches the scene intently. Just then, Hannibal also sends a quick glance her way. Is he simply following Will's eyeline?  
  
The fork enters Bedelia's mouth and emerges clean. She chews slowly and contemplatively.  
  
"It's nice to see you haven't lost your sense of drama," snarks Will.  
  
Bedelia takes a more conservative sip of Bordeaux this time, lips tinting the rim the color of dried blood. She opens her eyes. "Molly called me." Bomb dropped and speeding toward its target, she turns to Hannibal. "The fresh mint is a lovely touch."  
  
Will can't help himself. "Is she all right?"  
  
"Why would she not be?" Bedelia's normally slow, careful style of speaking has become even more exaggerated, as if it took special effort to translate her thoughts into words. "Merely because her husband abandoned her without a word to run away with a cannibal? A male cannibal? "  
  
"Just answer the question," he growls, avoiding Hannibal's gaze.  
  
"She's delusional. She is certain, even now, that you will return."  
  
Hannibal casually - too casually, to those who know him- presents a question of his own. "What business would Will's ex-wife have with you?"  
  
Her eyes waver in and out of focus as they try to make it past the candle flame to his face. "It seems his _wife_ learned of my therapeutic relationship with Will. She hoped for some insight into how the Tooth Fairy investigation affected him, where he might be now. Naturally, I told her that was privileged information." She slides another meat cube off the tines with her teeth.  
  
"Naturally." Hannibal lifts his eyebrows at Will. "When did you begin this therapeutic relationship? If I know you at all, you sought it out."  
  
"Not long into the investigation." His tone becomes faintly defensive. "I mean, who else could I have talked to about these things?"  
  
"You could have talked to me."  
  
"Trust me. I couldn't."  
  
"It appears you both got what you desired in the end. Congratulations." Bedelia's chin dips elegantly in Will's direction. "I genuinely thought you'd had enough of Hannibal's charms after his attempt to put you in his stomach. I thought you would have to be insane to let him into your life ever again. Ah well, I suppose the course of true love never did run smooth."  
  
She gazes down at her dress, blinking as some sort of epiphany blindsides her. A few beats later, the words make it from her brain to her mouth. "These clothes aren't mine. I would never wear something like this. Still trying to remake me out of cannibalized parts, Hannibal?" Her laugh is giddy.  
  
Abigail, who had been happily eating phantom psychiatrist off of a phantom plate, lets her knife drop with a clang. "I see why you wanted to eat her first."  
  
Hannibal shakes his head as if a child has just told him a transparent lie. "I can't help noticing, my dear, your strategic silence on the fact that it was you who convinced me I needed to consume Will's essence."  
  
Now it's Will's turn to raise his eyebrows. "Essence?"  
  
 "Of course. Your brain is your most singular component. It is your essence."  
  
"I'm flattered, I guess." He turns to Bedelia. "Perhaps you hoped we would kill each other? I imagine you're still trying to get us to kill each other."  
  
"I hoped Hannibal would kill _you_ ," she corrects, jabbing her fork at him. "It had been evident for some time that your... mutual obsession would be Hannibal's downfall, one way or another. What I meant to prevent was the sort of foolishness on your part that you ultimately displayed."  
  
"The sort of foolishness that resulted in your leg becoming a pupating caterpillar?" He drives the point home by popping a slice of meat into his mouth and chewing with great relish.  
  
"Yes. That."  
  
Will looks down at the wildly varying colors of rice on his plate. Ruby red. Azure blue. Blood black. Assembled together, they remind him of a kaleidoscope of butterflies, but they also remind him of the drug-induced phantasms he'd seen that night he had almost died at the hands of his beloved. Painful as the memory is, it's perversely pleasing to think there are parts of him she'll never share in. He takes a bite as the woman shifts into a more conversational tone.  
  
"You know, Mr. Graham, you once referred to me as the Bride of Frankenstein. That would make you Frankenstein's monster, wouldn't it?"  
  
He's still not very comfortable with being called a monster. "What do you think?" he neutrally asks of Hannibal. "Am I the monster you created?"  
  
"I certainly hope so."  
  
The shimmering mirage at the foot of the table is now coated head to toe in blood, Carrie-like. Will forgets himself and lets his gaze stray openly to it. The red on Abigail's dress is visible only where it plasters the gypsy sleeves to her arms, but her hair is slicked back flat against her skull. It accentuates the effect of those eyes. Those enormous, suddenly _frightening_ cerulean pools staring out at Hannibal from the crimson canvas of her face. Not even a breath later, her warning is fulfilled.  
  
"Aren't these mad doctors usually destroyed by their creations in the end?" Bedelia expounds, the tines of her fork wagging back and forth between the two men. "If I can assume that you indulge in those types of movies?"  
  
"All right," Will snaps. "I think that's enough."  
  
As he reaches for her wine glass, she stabs his hand with the fork, viciously enough to draw blood. Hannibal sighs.  
  
"Sorry. Had to get that out of my system." And she turns her attention to the radish slaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Abigail's first "in person" appearance in this chapter, I was feeling nostalgic. I started wondering what her life would have been like if things had gone her way in "Mizumono".
> 
> So what else could I do but write some happy, fluffy smut? Check out [An Education Long Delayed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6892708) for my first Murder Family fic.


	6. Curiosities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neither of them had even suggested sleeping in Bedelia's bed, so they're currently sprawled across the guest bed. It strikes Will as odd that such a reclusive woman would have made arrangements for guests. He must remember to ask Hannibal for his opinion on the matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, but this is a setpiece chapter, and classes have been kicking my ass as well. Hopefully, it was worth the wait.

 

  


Will works his way down Hannibal's torso, in no rush at all. Their lovemaking has grown increasingly more relaxed and accomplished since that first night under the good omen of a red sky and life-giving rain.  
  
Neither of them had even suggested sleeping in Bedelia's bed, so they're currently sprawled across the guest bed. It strikes Will as odd that such a reclusive woman would have made arrangements for guests. He must remember to ask Hannibal for his opinion on the matter.  
  
For now, he disappears under the tastefully neutral duvet and noses through the fine feathering of salt and pepper on Hannibal's thigh. In view of the "straight" lifestyle he'd settled into for most of his life, it's ironic that the very thing Will should find most addictive about his partner's body is it's maleness. The scent under his nostrils is a dizzying musk, the flesh under his lips is firm. The form is larger and more angular than a woman's, but lent softening curves by swells of muscle. Will has even developed a fondness for the salty-sweet tang of his cum.  
  
Now he runs his hand over those curves and to the indentation just below the hip, trailing kisses up the thin barrier of Hannibal's inner thigh. He's rewarded with a sigh and a quiver.  
  
"Hannibal," he says, lips still pressed to thigh. Hannibal's only response is to draw his knee back to provide easier access.  
  
Will looks up and repeats, more forcefully, "Hannibal."  
  
The name's owner lifts the edge of the duvet to peer at him. "Yes?"  
  
"I want to try it." Will's mouth moves to the even softer skin of Hannibal's scrotum.  
  
"Right now?"  
  
"Right now." Will savors the crushed velvet texture between his lips, rolls it as his finger travels down the V groove toward Hannibal's cock, which springs to life before his eyes.  
  
Hannibal rubs his cheek against the pillow in that feline gesture of pleasure that Will adores. "This is very sudden." He takes Will's face in his hands and pulls it up to his lips.  
  
Just before they meet, Will feels a shift and finds himself on his back. Hannibal is now above him, sheet twisted around his legs with the force of the movement. "Your eagerness," needles Hannibal, "wouldn't have anything to do with the the fact that the good doctor is sleeping on the other side of this wall?"  
  
Will favors him with a rare free, open laugh. "Don't pretend you weren't making your own plans. I know you didn't just get surgical supplies in town."  
  
Hannibal blinks, then lowers his groin. He flashes a wicked grin as Will's head slips out of its foreskin sheath and bumps his belly. The pressure becomes more insistent, until Will spreads his legs with the expected gasp. "Shall I congratulate you on your powers of observation or berate you for your nosiness?"  
  
"Do what you want. As long as what you want involves this." With breathtaking suddenness, Hannibal is now the one who finds himself on his back. As he admires the sharp claws his cub is growing, the younger man opens the bedside drawer and withdraws the thing standing between them and full consumation. On the yacht, spit or a dab of olive oil were sufficient for one or two fingers, but neither had any interest in trying intercourse without proper lube.  
  
Hannibal gently rolls Will over onto his side. When he squirts an ample dab of lube into his hand, Will sticks his own fingers under the stream, wetting them as well. Hannibal licks the ripe swell of his lower lip as a slender leg inserts itself between his muscular ones, parting them enough to expose his hole.  
  
Will rubs the syrupy substance between his fingertips, puzzled by the tingling sensation it generates. A pleased hum vibrates through him as he realizes that this is, in fact, warming lube.  
  
 "Always prepared, huh?"  
  
The lovers pull each other close and hold tight, reaching around the other's body to mutually prepare and pleasure. They watch their own reflections in each other's eyes, spellbound, as practiced fingers push, rotate and stretch. Will had once tried to get Molly to do this for him, but she thought it was "gross". Since then, he's learned much about the delights of the oft-neglected prostate. He had curled up against Hannibal as the more experienced man had used it to bring him to multiple orgasms, something he'd never before thought possible. He had felt that powerful body jerk out of control beneath him as he'd returned the favor.  
  
Now, though, they deliberately avoid prostates. This is not the main course; merely an aperitif meant to ready body and mind. Even so, the prickling heat washes outward with each penetration, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Will gasps, drawing Hannibal's warm breath deep into his lungs. He wriggles a second finger into the slick tightness of Hannibal's body and now Hannibal is the one sharing Will's exhalation.  
  
Will grins and tilts in to let their foreheads meet, fitfully chewing his lip as Hannibal adds an extra finger of his own. "Do you like that?" he hears echoed quietly in his ear.  
  
His arm aches from Hannibal pushing back into the pleasure of his touch. His forehead is already slippery against faintly lined skin. His rim burns as it's spread. He doesn't like it. He loves it. And he knows Hannibal is well aware of that fact.  
  
He answers anyway, with a nod and a hushed, "More."  
  
Hannibal kisses a droplet off the tip of his nose, collecting the salt with a curl of his tongue, and ducks to graze his upper lip. Then he obeys the command, stifling all delighted outbursts with a proper kiss as he does so.  
  
Will sinks slowly into its dark but inviting depths, punctuated by playful nips as he stretches Hannibal wider. It's a languid kiss, one content to crawl before it runs. When he pulls away, it's only far enough to say, "I'm ready."  
  
Will expects to be asked for reassurance that he truly is ready. Instead, Hannibal shoves him down and roughly parts his thighs. Even better. Will hooks his knees over the sturdy outcroppings of Hannibal's hips and levers himself up.  
  
Hannibal leans his head back and rumbles low as the lube's glow hits his synapses. He slowly coats his dick, watching the man beneath him through slitted eyelids. Will watches back in an attitude of fetching openness.  
  
 Appreciative eyes travel down Will's body until they reach his lovely ass, which Hannibal cups and lifts to his cock. He sees Will flinch slightly at the moment of truth, feels his opening quickly contract and expand against Hannibal's tip. Hannibal kneads his buttocks to help him relax as he presses against the firm ring of muscle barring his entrance.  
  
"Take a deep breath," he instructs. "Slowly."  
  
With a surprised grunt from Will, the head of his cock suddenly breaches the muscle. Hannibal leaves it there for a moment, allowing Will time to adjust. It tests his self control and, apparently, Will feels the same way. He squeezes devastatingly around Hannibal, trying to pull him deeper in.  
  
The cannibal's veins swell like a garden hose, rigid under his skin, as he slides into the fleshy warmth of his beautiful killer. Even with the deed done, it's hard to believe. All two hundred of his IQ points stumble in domino fashion over the reality that he is inside Will Graham after so many setbacks, so many times when it seemed he would never even see the empath again.  
  
As Hannibal moves in and out, Will tries something he never has before, with any of his partners. It's an impulsive move, and one he probably wouldn't have had the courage to make if he had given himself time to think. He closes his eyes and sees the pendulum swing, closer and closer to his retinas, as he fully submerges himself in his lover's mind.  
  
His eyes and mouth snap open and his body arcs violently. Bursts of pleasure are pinballing between them, overlapping and amplifying each other as if his skull were an echo chamber. There is nothing else.  
  
Hannibal watches with a special fascination. It's a privilege every time he sees Will's gift in action, but this is unlike anything he's witnessed before. He leans in, enthralled, and Will gropes blindly for the man he had tried so long and so hard to push away.  
  
Hannibal denies his fingers what they're seeking, curious to see what he'll do. With a frustrated growl, Will digs his heels in behind Hannibal's knees and knocks him off balance so sharply that the other man's arms shoot out to catch himself.  
  
He wraps his legs around Hannibal's midsection to keep him from escaping, still staring sightlessly up, wide eyes turned green by sodium vapor streetlights. It's such a striking vision that Hannibal submits and lowers himself onto the unsteady support of Will's chest.  
  
The corner of his mouth quirks up as he feels a tickle at his throat. Will's beard has grown full and the whiskers scratch at the hollow just above his clavicle. Their coarseness gives way to the blissfully soft wet of the tip of his tongue dipping into the depression. Hannibal arches his neck, trying to give him space without pulling away, and winces as teeth clamp down on his Adam's apple, just hard enough to leave marks. His Lamb does like to play rough.  
  
Will's thighs are beginning to shake and his breathing turn ragged. "No,'" he chokes as Hannibal abruptly stops thrusting.  
  
"You're going to come too quickly, Will. You have to close your mind."  
  
An incoherent cry is Will's response. Hannibal grabs his chin and forces him to meet his eye. His voice takes on the mesmerizing rhythms familiar from therapy. "Focus on your own sensations. Focus on _this_ sensation."  
  
He cups Will's cheek, lying perfectly still except for the slow caress of his forefinger behind Will's ear. "Focus," Hannibal orders again.  
  
The slim body gradually calms beneath him. Finally, Will sighs and stirs. His scar still blushes pink through his beard. "I hope you're not flattering yourself too much."     
  
"But I am flattered. You let me in."     
  
He rolls Will over onto his stomach and thrusts hard into the plush resistance of his buttocks, earning a gasp. Hannibal's hips tilt as he drapes his body over the smaller one and wraps an arm around his chest, hitting the sweet spot again and again with metronomic precision.  
  
Will wedges a hand against the headboard to keep himself from getting fucked into it and, remembering what's on the other side, moans even louder. His voice hitches breathlessly as Hannibal's lips attack a favorite target, the coin-sized spot at the base of his skull that reliably ties him into knots.  
  
He digs his forehead into the pillow and turns this way and that, trying to find relief as scraping teeth set lava bubbling up beneath his skin, as a nose brushes aside the cluster of damp, limp curls tickling it.  
  
Should he feel this hot? With Hannibal all around him, enfolding him, pushing deep into him, it's unbearable. Sweat is rapidly soaking the pillow. Will squirms and fights for air.  
  
Hannibal cradles Will's chin in his free hand and lifts it from its soggy valley, hugging higher up his ribcage to allow it to more easily expand. The burning breath on his cheek, expelled in staccato bursts, nudges Will past the limits of endurance. He pushs convulsively off the headboard as he comes, clutching and twisting at the bedsheet.  
  
As his own cries and the pounding of blood fill his ears, Will becomes aware of Hannibal's climax only through a vibration in his cheekbone. It travels to his spine, which seems to reverberate in sympathy, sparking a renewed wave of pleasure. Somehow, the heat gushing into him cuts through the contained inferno of his body, and then it's all over.  
  
After the other man rolls off of him with a reluctant groan, Will turns to face him. Hannibal's hair has grown out from its utilitarian hospital crop and now hangs dripping over his eyes. Uncharacteristically, he seems content to leave it there.  
  
Will sucks in a lungful of cool air and says, "I hope you don't think we're finished."  
  
An amused puff hits his face. "I'll try to keep up."  
  
With that established, Will falls onto his back and props his arms above his head. Contentment washes over him and settles into the marrow of his bones. Within a couple of minutes, he goes from one temperature extreme to the other as the sweat begins to evaporate. Burrowing into Hannibal's chest drives the chill away.  
  
Shortly, the larger body is moving against his again, skilled lips pressed against his receptive ones. Will pushes him down, down, down, to where those lips can do the most good.  
  
They seal over the bulbous head of his cock, moistening and massaging until the unexpected flitting of Hannibal's tongue over his frenulum. Gratified by the reaction it gets, Hannibal keeps at it, fist moving up and down the flaccid length beneath. He can smell Will's fresh arousal, taste it in the iron swelling up against his tongue. Concentrated under the covers, it makes him feel punch-drunk.  
  
What he doesn't feel is a tightening of Will's balls beneath his fingers. Hannibal slips his index finger into his lover's still-slippery opening and homes in on the large nub in the upper wall.  
  
"Goddamn, Hannibal," Will gasps, reaching under the duvet of tasteful neutrality.  
  
He writhes and rakes his fingers through Hannibal's hair, balling clumps up in his fists as the thin film of tissue over his prostate is probed. These are graceful fingers that manipulate musical instruments, move pen over paper in calligraphic swoops and perform the alchemical magic that turns raw materials into five star meals. But they are also fingers that regularly tear flesh apart. Will imagines that the next swirling press will tear through that tissue, and then the other man truly will be inside him. The thought sends his heart racing.  
  
As his breathing picks up, his cock begins to stiffen. Hannibal encourages it with a firmer grip and faster pace, and a bizarre thought crosses Will's mind. _Who's that coordinated?_  
  
Two long fingers snag the nub and pinch it gently, confidently. _Seriously, who?_ Will presses both palms to his eyes until blackness turns to white, feeling the lava seep back up.  
  
The duvet looms as Hannibal sits back to admire his handiwork, then he emerges and peels a hand away from Will's face. A tube is pressed into his palm and his fingers closed over it. "I want to watch you."  
  
In spite of that pronouncement, his eyes roam every inch of pale skin as Will impatiently applies the lube. Where the orange light turned those enormous eyes green, Hannibal's own absorb it like twin black holes. The debauched tufts of hair standing up above them are warmly backlit, but his eyes show only sparks being extinguished on their event horizons.    
  
Will rises to his knees and pushes the larger man up against the headboard, scooting into position behind him.  
  
"Are you sure you want to do it this way?"  
  
"Oh yes."  
  
He plants a hand on either side of the taut muscle that is Hannibal's ass and feels a sudden thrill as the cheeks spread for his cock. It's the other man who shivers, however, when Will's arms encircle his waist and yank him forcefully back, an impalement rather than a slow joining.  
  
They trail up his chest, fingers curling through hair, and hold Hannibal close. His heart hammers deliriously against the broad back, and perhaps this is why it takes Will several seconds to realize that Hannibal is actually _shaking_.  
  
It's so dumbfounding, he freezes. Hannibal growls and fastens a crushing grip on Will's wrist, pulling him back in in spite of the trapped hairs ripping from his chest. Some remote region of his brain is startled by the ferocity of his reaction.  
  
Will seems to take it as encouragement, though. The next thrust slams all six feet of Hannibal Lecter into the headboard, which bounces off the wall with a sharp ** _thwack_**. One lithe arm loops itself back around his waist, the other around his neck, just firmly enough to make Hannibal work a bit harder for each breath.  
  
His Adam's apple bobs satisfyingly against Will's forearm as he spreads his knees and lowers himself to create deeper penetration, bowels lurching. Will is starting to feel a chill from the lube still smeared between his cheeks, but his cock... His cock is wreathed in fire every time it plunges deep into the other man's body. He is both opened and opening.  
  
Will's breath is loud and hot in Hannibal's ear and Hannibal reflexively turns into it, closing his eyes as their cheeks meet. For a time, the rhythmic clack of the headboard against Bedelia's wall drowns out their moans, then it abruptly stops.  
  
"I don't want to come before you," comes Will's half-vocalized whisper in his ear.  
  
He peels away the hand still clutching his waist and guides it down to his erection. As the fingers close tightly around the base, his eyes flutter shut again. Will slides up the shaft and lets his thumb drift over the slit before beginning to pump in earnest. Tentatively, feeling he has his limbic system back under control, he resumes thrusting.  
  
Hannibal's cock spills into the palm of his hand, warm and slippery and foaming, and he erupts like a volcano. So much for control.  
  
Will rests his forehead on Hannibal's shoulder and rides out his orgasm in twitchy spasms, the convulsions around his dick drawing ecstasy from him even after his balls have been emptied.  
With one last grunt, he flops onto a wrinkled, flattened pillow. "I would break you out of prison all over again."  
  
This earns a dry chuckle. "Or a mental hospital, even."  
  
"Whatever," Will mumbles. The lights are already going out in the bone arena of his skull, one by one.  
  
He can feel Hannibal's eyes watching him, and it's a comforting presence. Maybe it's only his famously fertile imagination, but just before darkness takes him, Will thinks he feels the faintest touch of lips on his forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always imagined that Will would be a wildcat in bed (all those repressed passions, doncha know) and Hannibal would be a bit more refined. This possibly indicates that I've spent way too much time thinking about it.


	7. Back in the High Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You use computers?"
> 
> "I'm not that old," Hannibal replies, eyes not wavering from the screen. It's hard to tell if he's offended or amused.
> 
> Will edges around the desk. "I mean, it wasn't a question of knowing how to use one." A Tattler article is up on the screen, the liquid crystal reds of its masthead instantly communicating crime and sensation. "You just always struck me as a Luddite kind of-"
> 
> The article's headline makes him forget everything else. He leans on the desk, ducking his head as he reads. When he turns, Hannibal is watching him with a ridiculously proud grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think a homophobe would last long with two bisexual men who eat the rude in town, did you?

  


  
"Will."  
  
At first, he thinks the voice is a dream. Then it connects to the firm but gentle grip on his shoulder, which shakes him twice.  
  
"Will."  
  
Will Graham lifts his face from the pillow and mumbles, "Hmmph?" Then, with a tinge of panic, "What's wrong?"  
   
"Not a thing in the world," says Hannibal. "It's time for physical therapy."  
  
"I thought that was what we did last night." Will rolls over and rests his cheek on Hannibal's bicep. "Come on, it's cold out there."  
  
"You'll warm up quickly. I promise." Hannibal tugs his bicep away.  
  
Will cranes for a view of the liquid crystal numbers on the opposite side of the bed. "Why so early?"  
  
"I have a surprise planned. And eight AM is not early."  
  
"Hmmm. A pleasant one, I hope. Your surprises have a tendency to not go well for me."  
  
"I would not be mentioning it if it weren't." A subtle hint of humor softens the edges of his words.  
  
"Well, I guess someone has to feed Bedelia." He stretches and tilts his head back to appraise Hannibal. "Weren't you still awake when I fell asleep? Now that I think of it, I'm not sure if I've ever seen you sleep. Do you not do it?"  
  
"Of course I sleep, Will. Just not as much as you do."  
  
Will swings his legs briskly over the side of the bed. "I'm just saying it would explain a lot if you don't sleep. And before we do anything else, we both need showers. Desperately."  
  
**************  
  
The men share an alert, slightly predatory look, with their hair tamed and plastered to their skulls. Will zips up his windbreaker as they exit the back door.  
  
"Given enough time," Hannibal announces out of nowhere, "I could construct access to where we're going in the basement. In our less ideal circumstances, we must venture outside."  
  
He stretches a knit cap neatly over his head, seemingly unaware of how alien it looks on him, and hooks the curved end of a crowbar through a sidewalk grate. He twists and lifts the grate half an inch with a grunt.  
  
As it slides aside, Will connects the dots. "We're going down _there_?"  
  
"Yes. And if we don't want to be spotted interfering with public property, we shouldn't dally."  
  
It's a tight fit even for Will, and he fully expects Hannibal's entry to be thwarted as soon as it begins. Instead, he watches in awe as the larger man's form twists sinuously through the gap and drops into the crouch they have to adopt to move through a space that wasn't designed for human bodies. Hannibal hooks the grate and leans back, using his weight to help pull it back into place.  
  
"Is this your surprise?"  
  
"The first chapter of it," Hannibal hedges. "Follow me." As they progress down the drizzling trench, still bent over, he continues, "Beneath the skin of Baltimore is a web of tunnels that, to this day, I know only partially. Rail, aqueduct, organized crime. But the initial entry usually has to be made through a more modern drainage or utility tunnel."  
  
They climb down into a dimly lit area. "It's one reason this city was able to hold me for so long, in spite of the atrocious weather." He flips on a flashlight and pans it slowly over their surroundings.  
  
Will examines the latticework of thin PVC piping that covers the walls. "Communications infrastructure?" he guesses. An affirmative nod sends a judder through the shadows. "It seems warmer down here too."  
"Paradoxically, it will get warmer the further underground we go, until a constant temperature is reached. Now follow me. I have such sights to show you."  
  
The couple starts the morning's efforts with a jog, not through the city, but though the alien world beneath the skin. As they make their way from junction to junction, Hannibal provides a basic introduction to navigating that world, explaining where different kinds of tunnels tend to be located.  
  
On an abandoned rail line, without warning, Will stops. Hannibal jogs a few steps past him, then turns, asking a question with a hairline lift of his brow.  
  
"Hospitals have tunnels under them," he states, voice husky with exertion. "Including the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane."  
  
"Miles of them. One could easily get lost if one didn't take care."  
  
"That's how you got to Abel Gideon." It was another flat, unemotional assertion of fact. "And got him out, gurney and all. Which means you could have gotten _me_ out, or killed me, any time you wanted."  
  
"Yes, I imagine I could have. I sat by your bedside on several occasions."  
  
"While I was asleep? Jesus Christ, Hannibal, that's a little creepy." Still, he feels a tiny surge of triumph. Even at that early stage of their relationship, Hannibal was unable to entirely abandon him.  
  
The doctor holds the flashlight under his face, turning his eye sockets black and the sharp planes of his face sinister. It might be a joke on Will's "creepy" remark or simply an effort to make sure his face can be read. "When I decided to return your freedom, it had to be completely. You had to be beyond the law's reach. And I never wanted to kill you."  
  
The jog resumes with greater vigor.  
  
"On the way back, we'll stop by my house and get a wheelchair for our host. I would enjoy a visit."  
  
"Are you talking about the hatch in your basement? They found that and sealed it years ago."  
  
Hannibal slowed for only a moment. "That... is a shame. We'll have to get a wheelchair elsewhere then."  
  
In spite of his surface serenity, Will can see how great a disappointment the news is. Wanting a home is perilous for people like them.  
  
When they reach their destination, it takes both of them to dislodge the manhole. Hannibal's breath whistles in his nostrils as his crowbar coaxes the small but surprisingly heavy disk back, vomiting buckets of fine ivory powder. "Amazing how out of shape you can get during a stint in a cell," Will playfully needles.  
  
Hannibal fires back. "Or during a convalescence."  
  
Will is blinded the instant he emerges into the clean air. He stumbles forward into a mound of something that resists the motion. As his eyes adjust, they reveal that the cause of the glare is a wall of white.  
  
"Oh my god," he breaths.  
  
Hannibal pops up behind him. "Welcome to one of Baltimore's most hidden places."  
  
At least a foot of snow from all the season's accumulated snowfalls blankets every surface ìn a sealed-off courtyard. It's bracketed on two sides by windowless industrial facades, on the other two by high walls. One of those walls has a boarded-up gate embedded in the center, wholly cutting off the only conventional means of entrance.  
  
The small space has been abandoned long enough for bushes to sprout up, vines to claim the walls and the central tree to grow broad and tangled. All of it, every last inch, is immaculate. Even the red brick glitters with a membrane of ice, left over from a recent thaw.  
  
Will exhales, rationing his smoky breath into a sleeping dragon's long, thin stream. He follows Hannibal's purposeful strides across the courtyard, snow collapsing into the tops of his running shoes.  
  
Hannibal sweeps aside a branch and works a brown waterproof trunk from side to side, freeing it from its icy cradle at the base of the tree.  
  
"In my champagne days, I kept a few things here in case I should ever need them," he explains.  
  
A "few things" turn out to be gear stacked nearly to the lid. As Hannibal moves aside an outdated burner phone, Will looks back at the two sets of footprints. The outlines of one are large and sharp in the virgin snow, interlaced with smaller shirred prints. "You've never shown this to anyone before." The insight stuns him.  
  
Hannibal's profile turns to appear above his shoulder. "No one else has known about it before."  
  
The small, primary colored dumbbells that had lain in wait for them for nearly a decade are used in now-familiar exercises designed to restore strength and pliability to damaged muscle tissue. As Will swings one across his body, Hannibal says, "Swimming would be better, if we had access to an indoor pool. Soon enough, I suppose."  
  
"You know," Will begins carefully, "I saw a stray outside yesterday. Gorgeous red-"  
  
"No, Will."  
  
"No Will what?"  
  
"There's no room for a dog in our lives." He purses his lips, guiding Will's arm through a flexing motion. "How would you feel about a cat?"  
  
"A cat."  
  
"Yes, a nice short hair, perhaps. Something that won't shed on the furniture."  
  
His free hand unconsciously goes up to rub his beard. "I'll think about it."  
  
**************  
  
Will settles Bedelia into an easy chair and marvels at how much less she weighs sans leg. She squints up at him with drug-glazed eyes as he tucks a blanket over her lap.  
  
"It looks like you two have been out being all you can be." The words come out with the same peculiar precision and unique intonation she had displayed the night before. Will refuses to answer, instead checking the fresh bandage on her stump to make sure it didn't shift in transport.  
  
"Will," comes a muffled voice. "Join me, please."  
  
He crosses into the next room, where Hannibal sits at Bedelia's ultrathin laptop.  
  
"You use computers?"  
  
"I'm not _that_ old," Hannibal replies, eyes not wavering from the screen. It's hard to tell if he's offended or amused.  
  
Will edges around the desk. "I mean, it wasn't a question of knowing how to use one." A Tattler article is up on the screen, the liquid crystal reds of its masthead instantly communicating crime and sensation. "You just always struck me as a Luddite kind of-"  
  
The article's headline makes him forget everything else. He leans on the desk, ducking his head as he reads. When he turns, Hannibal is watching him with a ridiculously proud grin.  
  
Will finds himself grinning back. "It looks like some enterprising soul at the Tattler noticed the town's name. Enough to find it fitting to put this story in Freddie Lounds' old column."  
  
"Still her current column," Hannibal points out. His finger traces its length down the laptop's brushed aluminum case, so in keeping with the chilliness of the doctor's color scheme. "A single severed hand, badly burned, found resting on a Bible in Frederica's very town hall. Almost as if taking an oath."  
  
"Almost," Will deadpans.  
  
"Though our scribe fails to reach the conclusion that the torso in the church could have been a clue to the location of this piece of the puzzle. I begin to suspect you're turning poor Ms. Lounds' demise into a game, Will."  
  
"I know, from personal experience, how you love your games." Will's hand moves over Hannibal's and clicks off the screen. "Would you like to help me make the next move?"  
  
He might as well have asked "Is water wet?" Hannibal braces the opaque ice of Freddie's head on a bench in the basement as Will cuts into the face with a saw.  
  
"This would be so much easier with a bandsaw," Will grunts. "Cleaner cut too."  
  
"I've always found it aesthetically pleasing," agrees Hannibal. "But the true artist can work with whatever tools are at hand."  
  
Will nods and idly recalls that his brain should be categorizing this as surreal advice. Mercifully, such musings are all that is left of the doubt and self-loathing that had nearly torn him apart more than once.  
  
With the skull sawed partway through lengthwise, Will explains that he'll have to wait for it to partially thaw before he'll be able to prise apart the two halves of the face and bend them back to face away from each other.  
   
As the words begin to paint a picture, Hannibal's eyes brighten until they fairly glitter. "You're making a Janus face. A creature of dual natures, capable of presenting the world with two faces."  
  
Will nods, the beginning of a sly grin animating his face.  
  
"But in exposing her faces, you expose the skeins inside her mind to light." His fingers twitch as if they can't wait to be set to work.  
  
Will splits the tongue and pins one fork up in a curliqued little smile on the left side of the face, then the other in a curliqued frown on the right. He steps back to take in the total effect. "Do you think it would be too much if I used color on her eyelids?"  
  
"You're asking a man who grafted a living body onto a tree and stuffed the cavities with mixed bouquets."  
  
"Too true. Go get Bedelia's makeup kit for me. You know where it is."  
  
He paints the right eyelid dark blue and the left eyelid vermilion, finishing off with enhancements to the pallor of the skin and the redness of the lips. With Hannibal's help, he's able to separate the "faces" and complete his chef d'ouevre.  
  
After refreezing, Will packs ice around the head with great care. While this is technically not his first solo piece, the thought of anyone finding it lacking troubles him far more than it should. He insists on mailing the plain carton to Freddie's Baltimore branch office himself.  
  
*************  
  
The sound of controlled chaos draws Will to the kitchen. Bedelia and her wheelchair are partly concealed behind the island, the source of the clatter. He can discern "...don't cook often" above a metallic ring.  
  
"I need your help."  
  
Hannibal's head pops up over the counter. "Pardon?" Will had convinced him that they wouldn't be here long to justify an investment in his preferred cookware. Thus, these excursions through the available substitutes weren't uncommon.  
  
"I need your help with something."  
  
Their suddenly gracious host wheels slowly back as she and Hannibal take in Will's T-shirt and track pants. They follow him into the office, where the chairs have been pushed back to the wall and a fat canvas tube cinched with yellow duct tape lies in the middle of the floor.  
  
Bedelia watches as the two men hang the DIY punching bag from the beamed ceiling that she had so enjoyed sparring (in an entirely different sense) with Will beneath. Abigail also spectates from one of the discarded armchairs. Her look today is refreshingly light and summery, her hair tied up in a ponytail to reveal both petite ears intact in death.  
  
"Hold it for him, like you used to do for me!" she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.  
  
Hannibal grabs the punching bag and braces it as Will throws a few loose, experimental punches, then says, "It's not that different from the bag I made when I was training to face _you_."  
  
"That didn't turn out very well," Abigail jibes.  
  
"That didn't turn out very well," Hannibal echoes. At Will's rueful frown, he goes on, "Let's see if I can't teach you better."  
  
He guides his pupil through a series of strikes and kicks. Bedelia soon tires of the training session and abandons them for a book. When Will follows for a water break, he returns to hear Hannibal's voice.  
  
"I did not push too hard," are the mysterious words uttered.  
  
"Who are you talking to?"  
  
"No one," says Hannibal, but the denial is accompanied by a glance at the end of the office where Abigail sits crosslegged on the desk. It lingers a split second too long.  
  
****************  
  
They stand before their newest surprise, this one arranged by Hannibal. The Bostonian who had insulted them with a homophobic sneer when they first arrived in Baltimore now hangs by his ankles in the bright, respectable basement of one Dr. Du Maurier. The ill-fitting Red Sox shirt has been replaced with a rumpled yellow dress shirt, one flap drooping from his pants to reveal an outie belly button. His face is already ruddy and congested with blood unable to fight the law of gravity.  
  
_This time, it had been Will who held the man's arms while Hannibal choked him unconscious. The sheer speed with which he had succumbed had been galvanizing. That had been at the hotel. Hannibal had correctly surmised that this deserving morsel was a tourist and somehow tracked him to his hotel, gifting Will with an unannounced (but hardly unplanned) visit._  
  
The plastic laid down inches below the captive's head filters the brown and tan swoops of smartly finished concrete into misty watercolors. Hannibal cunningly folds the edges into blood gutters as his partner sets up a workstation nearby. The basement doesn't seem to be used for anything except storage, and not much of that, leaving plenty of open area.  
  
The man wakes with an ungainly flop as Will extracts blood from his cheek into two saucers. He places the saucers on the workstation and pricks his own finger, letting it drip into one saucer before passing the scalpel back to Hannibal to do the same with the other saucer.  
  
The pair are familiar with the personality type they're dealing with, and ignore the man's blustering threats and intimidating chain rattles as they wait to see if the blood will react.  
  
Finally, Hannibal asks, "You don't remember us, do you?"  
  
"Should I, asshole?"  
  
He responds by stepping up to let his chest meet Will's back and enfolding him in his arms, quieting an impatient heel bounce. "He's exquisite, isnt he?" He pulls Will's face around into a soft, lingering over-the-shoulder kiss.  
  
Will tilts his head back so that he, too, can watch the man squirm in impotent discomfort. Killing is not a particularly sexual thing for either of them, but _he_ doesn't have to know that.  
  
By that time, it's clear that the blood in both saucers is beginning to clot, but Hannibal waits for his protege to point it out. "So his blood type isn't compatible with either of ours," Will proudly concludes.  
  
"Save some anyhow," instructs Hannibal. "I can use it in the sausages." Compromise, they had decided, was integral to their relationship. The division of labor negotiated in this case was that Will would choose the tableau, while Hannibal would choose the dish that was to be the meat's final destination. In the spirit of collaboration, he had chosen traditional Romanian  barn-raising sausages.  
  
At the mention of blood and sausage, the man goes silent. His stunned gaze follows as Will places a wide-mouthed bowl under his head.  
  
He rears back to spit in it. "Swallow _that_ , faggot!"  
  
Will just calmly tapes his mouth shut, then replaces the bowl. He rips off the bottom two buttons of the shirt and slides the hem down to expose vulnerable belly.  
  
Will traces an experimental vector beneath the outie and looks to his mentor for approval. Upon getting an upward nod, he moves his scalpel above the outie.  
  
"Lightly," admonishes Hannibal. "Remember, you can always make your incision deeper, but you can't make it shallower."  
  
Defiant noises turn to muffled howls as he opens up the fat layer. The man bucks. Will curses and barks, "Hold him."  
Hannibal obeys. A few more slices and Will is able to extract a smooth, red-slicked intestinal end, which he attaches to a wooden dowel. When Hannibal takes it, the dowel becomes the spit on which he wraps egregiously rude intestine, Will feeding it out to him.  
  
When he has enough, he severs the link. "Now that you've kindly started it for me, I'll take the meat from the belly." He eyes the crimson-coated roll. "It's an outstanding choice. Fatty tissues are always best for sausage."  
  
Will slides the bowl aside. As he does so, the drops of gore splattering and oozing across the plastic transfix him, shooting through the brown and tan watercolor. The familiar sensation of Hannibal's eyes on him, fascinated by his fascination, comes over him.  
  
Now that he has Will's attention again, Hannibal says, "Will you please fetch the ether? We're not _complete_ monsters, after all."  
  
Nearly two hours later, they strip in the master bath.  
  
_They had hung the man with what was left of his guts in a gated-off section of a subway station. Not the one the three of them had first met in, of course. That would have been mawkishly sentimental. This was **symbolic.**_  
  
_In the morning, when the gates were opened to expand the platform for its daily masses, those masses would be treated to the sight of the snared man tableau, pink intestines cobwebbing out from his missing lower half. That cobwebbing had been a last-minute inspiration on Will's part._  
  
_Hannibal knew at that precise moment that he had finally created his masterwork, sculpted not from death but from the living flesh before him. He had watched Will's eyes burn with blue fire and said, "Doing bad things to bad people makes you feel good indeed."_  
  
Now the blood rushes fiercely south as he watches Will's pants peel off, leaving a sticky rust film behind. Will pretends not to notice as he steps into the shower stall. Momentarily lightheaded, Hannibal brushes against the shower wall as he enters, adding his own red smears to Bedelia's imitation sandstone.  
  
_Blue fire, red smears..._  
  
They don't leave until an empty hot water tank drives them into bed.  
  
****************  
  
"The punchline has arrived." Hannibal speaks from behind the laptop screen where he now retreats multiple times per day, following the unfolding saga of Freddie Lounds the way others do with fantasy football. Dry amusement hides in the folds of his voice, signalling that something has changed. "The Tattler is running a contest to find the remaining pieces of their star reporter's... remains."  
  
Will knows the Frederica, Delaware remains were finally identified after the tabloid's receipt of the head. "When I said I wanted to send them a gift, I didn't think they would take it so literally." He drifts around to once again read over Hannibal's shoulder and feels a profound jolt at the sight of the picture on the screen- himself standing by the transport van as a muzzled and straitjacketed Hannibal was loaded into it.  
  
"Where did _that_ come from?"  
  
Hannibal glances back at him, puzzled, then follows his gaze to the slightly out of focus image. "Ms. Lounds' successor is paying for photographs of us. This is the first one of us together to be published. Quite a coup."  
  
The aftershocks transmute into the eerie tingle of seeing a past version of himself, a Will Graham with a nebulous connection to his current self, frozen at a pivotal point in time. He pictures a cartoon-like dotted line linking Past Graham's eyeline with Past Lecter's. Even they couldn't keep their eyes off each other. No wonder Alana and Jack had seemed suspicious.  
  
But all that comes out of his mouth is a jokey "Could be a good way to make extra money."  
  
Hannibal smirks as Will scrolls up to the byline. The name Ruvè Sloane appears in bold letters beneath the legend "In memory of our beloved colleague Frederica Lounds, whose passion for the truth was an inspiration". "They're laying it on thick, aren't they?" His eyes are drawn to the picture beside the byline: a young bottle blonde with dark roots and blue eyeshadow.  
  
"I don't think readers will notice much difference," Hannibal says, as if reading his mind.  
  
The first paragraph announces the formation of an FBI special task force to investigate a possible link between the murder of Freddie Lounds and the unique nature of her relationship with her favorite subjects. "I would have been on that task force once. Hunting _you_."  
  
"And now you are the hunted." Hannibal lightly hovers his hand over where Will's rests on the trackpad, a gesture no longer too familiar. The heat of his palm soaks in. "I regret that you can't have that stimulation anymore."  
  
"Are you kidding? That was the unhappiest time of my life."  
  
"I can't say the same. I rather enjoyed being hunted by Will Graham."  
  
"Well, I know how bored you get without your little games."  
  
Hannibal moves Will's finger on the trackpad, tracing a path farther down Ruvè Sloane's new column. "Speaking of which, my dear, don't you think it was a bit on the nose to put a pen in her other hand and leave it in the news office?"  
  
**************  
  
Matte coral lips separate just enough to release a barely noticeable sigh as Bedelia du Maurier injects a dose of morphine. She pinches some gauze in the crook of her bent elbow and languidly stretches out her remaining leg, watching her black satin Badgley Mischka pivot at the end of her ankle.  
  
"You don't need that anymore," says Will. He searches for the start button on an unexpected relic unearthed from one of the house's many closets: a Guitar Hero peripheral.  
  
Bedelia points her toes like a ballerina, the tiny crystal ornament at the tip of her shoe hypnotically catching the ceiling lights. "I'll take it for as long as you persist in providing it. Certainly for as long as my brandy goes unreplenished." Her foot lowers gently onto the wheelchair's rest as her eyes rise to his profile.  
  
Will selects a song and begins swaying back and forth, his fingers tapping nimbly over the guitar's primary-colored buttons.  
  
"Your latest set of scars don't seem to be holding you back. The visible scars or the hidden."  
  
"Am I in back in therapy, doctor?"  
  
"You _do_ have two former therapists in this house. And I have two former patients. I knew Hannibal still needed his therapist the night we boarded a plane together as husband and wife, when I saw that he had already begun to miss you."  
  
The skin between his eyes crinkles as he focuses intently on the screen, anticipating the next musical note. "Is that why you told him he had to kill me? To aid the therapeutic process?"  
  
"Your petty jealousy is unwarranted, Mr. Graham." The remark wrings an incredulous laugh from Will. Her voice takes on an enfolding velvet quality that makes it hard to block out. "Has a moment of speculation ever crossed your mind, I wonder, as to why he took my leg first, yet sought to take your life first?"  
  
"Maybe he didn't want me to suffer."  
  
"Perhaps not. But you also held little amusement for him. You were a failed experiment." She speaks the final words slowly and emphatically, but without apparent malice.  
  
He pauses the game so he can look her directly in the face. Her penetrating gaze meets and holds his. "Take care not to become boring. I've known Hannibal much longer than you have. He's like a cat that shreds the toilet roll when it's neglected."  
  
"Then you should have killed him when you had the chance."  
  
"Is that what you truly wish?"  
  
"It doesn't matter what I wish. The choice was yours, Bedelia."  
  
She rolls over to the minibar and pours a glass of white wine. His ex-therapist seems restored, as immaculately put together as in their sessions, her movements an elegant study in economy of motion. It shakes something deep inside Will.  
  
At last, she replies, "I know. I know I should have taken any of the numerous chances I had to rid myself of the man. I should have packed my bags, as you so helpfully suggested, the moment I learned of your plans to release him."  
  
"Why didn't you?"  
  
"The same reason I tested your limits, I expect. I have a... professional weakness for the genuinely unique."  
  
"Is that all, doctor?"  
  
Bedelia sips the wine and peers over the rim of the glass. "We all have weaknesses."  
  
As Will resumes playing, he hears a soft epilogue. "Bride of Frankenstein, Hannibal the Cannibal, Murder Husband. They can only hurt you if you think they're insults."  
  
A few minutes later, an alarming sound interrupts: the doorbell. Will flips off the TV and frowns in the direction of the door. They had been undisturbed all week, having arranged for Bedelia to cancel her appointments. His pulse instantly quickens.  
  
Hannibal appears in the hallway to the kitchen, wiping pickling brine from his hands. The two exchange a silent communication before Will moves to a window and slides the curtain back a fraction of an inch.  
  
In the nighttime darkness of the front stoop, all he can tell about the slender figure is that it's female and it's not a cop. The doorbell rings again, longer and more insistent.  
  
Hannibal moves to remind their captive of the wisdom of holding her tongue, while Will assumes a polite smile and opens the door.  
  
His questions die on his lips.  
  
"Hello, Will," says Alana Bloom.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bryan Fuller once mentioned that he thought Hannibal was using the network of tunnels beneath Baltimore to get around undetected. That inspired the tunnel sequence.
> 
> On a more random note, I was trying to think of a name for Freddie's replacement at The Tattler. I think "Freddie Lounds" has a faintly sleazy ring to it and "Ruve Sloane" has a similarly evocative feel to me. I hope it works for you too.


	8. Having An Old Friend For Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're just the last person I expected to ever see again," he admits, still staring openly.
> 
> Lips red as blood part to say, "I bet. I wouldn't be here if I had a choice, but I need to talk to you, now. Both of you. I know Hannibal is here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trivia: Alana's son is named Aaron because it means "miracle". For Alana and Margot, that's exactly what he was.

 

 

"Hello... Alana," Will returns haltingly. His eyes move past her to the street.

  
"Yes, I'm alone."

  
They trail casually over to the yard next door.

  
"I said I'm alone, Will," she snaps. "If I'd brought a SWAT team, you would already be in chains."

  
For the first time, he notices the strained quality in his visitor's voice. It's precisely the same quality Bedelia's had always displayed in his presence, less a change in pitch than an intangible grip on the vocal cords.

  
Will focuses on her face. Its flawlessly manicured surface is just the same as he remembers, but the eyes... Her pupils visibly shrink to pinpricks in the hallway light, leaving nothing but ice blue to drill into him from settings of inflamed sclera. The silent movie white skin is immobile and strands have escaped the black waves still framing her face. The overall Snow White effect is enhanced by a long blue coat with Alana's hands jammed deep in the pockets and a red scarf wrapped tightly around her throat.

  
"You're just the last person I expected to ever see again," he admits, still staring openly.

  
Lips red as blood part to say, "I bet. I wouldn't be here if I had a choice, but I need to talk to you, now. Both of you. I know Hannibal is here."

  
Will starts as Hannibal noiselessly glides up to his side.

  
"Speak of the devil and he appears," she murmurs.

  
"So they say. Once again you choose to be brave, Alana." Hannibal stretches his arms out to rest his hands on the door frame, looming over her and blotting out the light. "If not very smart."

  
Alana's right hand lifts from her coat pocket to show them the long barrel protruding from it. "Smart enough to bring this."

  
Both pairs of eyes are drawn irresistibly to the delicate gleam of pearl inlay between her fingers. Death made beautiful.

  
"You didn't think I spent three years sitting in an office, hoping you'd never escape?" She tilts the muzzle up a fraction of an inch. "I got pretty good with my toys."

  
It's clear now that the length comes not from the barrel, which is petite, but from a silencer. She could gun them both down where they stood and no one would hear a thing.

  
"I already shot you once, Hannibal. And I promise that this time, my gun has bullets." She takes a step back and clasps the weapon with both hands, keeping it blocked from street view.

  
He backs into the hall and gestures her in with a gracious unfurling of his arm.

  
"Good to see you haven't forgotten your manners."

  
Alana makes her way to the living room, forcing them ever farther back so she can move forward. Her eyes widen when she sees their "host", skirt subtly tucked to reveal the gauze-wrapped tip of her stump. She hastily averts them and sits in an armchair, arms atop the rests.

  
The opening of the silencer follows Will and Hannibal as if drawn to them magnetically as they settle onto the sofa directly opposite, making her the tip of their triangle. Bedelia wheels up to the outskirts of this tense gathering.

  
"Dr. Bloom. It's been a long time."

  
"Dr. du Maurier," Alana returns, gaze still trained on the men across from her.

  
"Bedelia?" questions Hannibal.

  
Bedelia folds her hands. "Believe me, nothing would please me more than to be able to take credit for this. I can't."   

  
"Would you care to stay for dinner?" she continues with disquieting cheer. "We're having Boston butt."

  
"I don't think so. I've had my fill of Hannibal's dinner parties."

  
"That is disappointing, now that all of the brides are finally together in the locked chamber."

  
This at last earns a quizzical look from Dr. Bloom, but Dr. du Maurier's hooded eyes are on Will. Both men sit stonefaced, like matching statues silently flanking a gate.

  
"How is your son these days?" Hannibal inquires. "I would have liked to have met him before I said goodbye. What's his name? Aaron?"

  
"Aaron is doing _very_ well, someplace far away from you." She tilts her head, taking in the effect of her words. "I've seen your apex predator stare before, Hannibal. We're old friends."

  
He only glares.

  
"I read about Freddie Lounds," Alana abruptly announces. "Which one of you killed her?"

  
Hannibal's eyes shift toward Will and she follows them. "Then I'm sorry."

  
"For what?" asks Will.

  
"I'm sorry I couldn't save you." Will shifts rigidly, his mask beginning to slip. "It was my fault, after all. I recommended Hannibal to Jack. I think about that a lot now. One different decision and none of this would ever have happened to you."

  
Will's voice is soft, and utterly, damningly controlled. "I neither need nor want your pity. I am not your mistake or anyone else's. I made my own choices, so you can save that look for your poor afflicted patients." He leans forward, causing the silencer to twitch as Alana grips the trigger tighter. "Why are you really here, Alana?"

  
A fond smile forces its way to Hannibal's face. He seems incapable of smothering it.

  
"It's Margot," she says simply. "Someone took her."

  
"Took her?" Will echoes.

  
Alana looks at Hannibal. "To be honest, my first thought was that you'd somehow found us. It wasn't your style, though. Too simple, too efficient."

  
His head cocks. "Thank you?"

  
"We were just outside Buffalo. Our reasoning was that the US was the last country you would be in just now. Obviously," she adds drily, "our reasoning was flawed."

  
She crosses her legs, the crack in the dike rapidly widening now that the story has begun. Hannibal mirrors her position by crossing the opposite leg, while Will leans into the arm of the sofa.

  
"Margot was tired of being cooped up. She wanted to go into town. I told her to take at least one bodyguard with her, but she said it would only attract attention. Meatpacking heiresses rarely have to worry about attention. Meatpacking heiresses in hiding from escaped serial killers- _those_ are a little more recognizable."

  
The next sentence comes after a delay, lips poised to speak and eyelids blinking rapidly. "I called the police after midnight. They had already found her car abandoned, but they didn't know where to call to inform me. The address on her registration, her driver's license..."

  
"Muskrat Farm," finishes Hannibal. She nods mutely.

  
"Why didn't you go with her?" Will inquires. "Not feeling the cabin fever?"

  
"I thought one of us should stay with Aaron."

  
"Or maybe you wanted, just a little bit," he pinches his thumb and forefinger together, "to let someone else take the risk?"

  
Her eyes narrow. "The police think Margot was taken by a serial killer who's been operating in the Buffalo area for several months, and I agree. The victim profile, the way she was taken, everything fits. He'll keep her alive for the next few days. That's been his pattern. And if we don't find her first, this man will flay her."

  
Hannibal's eyebrows microtick upward. "We?"

  
"Once I got past blaming _you_ , I started thinking about the things I've seen Will do. All the lives saved by those supernatural displays of empathy. By you too, Hannibal. I seem to remember you being called the new Will Graham at one time. If one of you can't find my wife, maybe the other can."

Will speaks up again. "Don't you trust Jack anymore, Dr. Bloom?"

  
"Jack is still on suspension, as I'm sure you already know, Will. He can't go anywhere near this case."

  
Will develops a particularly unpleasant smirk, but it's Hannibal's downcast eyes that attract her attention. "Did I say something wrong?"

  
"It saddens me to hear Jack is doing poorly. We were good friends at one time."

  
The smirk disappears.

  
"Mmmm," is Alana's dismissive response. "But I would be here anyway."

  
"Because you love your family," Hannibal elaborates for her. "This is the second time you've tracked me down for someone else. How did you manage it this time? I've been very careful."

  
"Not careful enough. I found out about the little gift you left for commuters at Old Court station. Who else but you could have done something like that?"

  
"I wouldn't dare take credit for someone else's work."

  
Alana's look of confusion melts under Will's direct stare. "It doesn't matter." She clips each word into an exemplar of professional detachment. "It placed you in or near Baltimore, atleast as of two days ago." Her foot bobs. "Where could you be in or near Baltimore that would be hidden, yet satisfy your taste for luxury and the theatrical? Once I had the answer, verifying that Dr. du Maurier wasn't answering any of her phones was just a formality."

  
"Seems the handicap of good taste is to be my lot in life."

  
"How did you know I wasn't in protective custody?" Bedelia has been listening so passively that this question shatters the trio's fragile thrall in a way that's almost violating. Everyone unconsciously shifts position.

  
"I... have a contact inside the FBI."

  
"You just said Jack Crawford is still suspended."

  
"So he is. I have another contact, one I see no need to name."

  
"How _is_ Ms. Lass doing these days?"

  
Alana sneaks a glance at the men. "How did you know?"

  
"I didn't, until you told me. But we have met. We both suffered the same traumatic experience, after all."  

  
Will's eyes resist rolling, but don't quite succeed. Hannibal's expression is one of mild amusement.

  
"I'm glad to see you're so pleased, Hannibal," says Alana.

  
"I didn't even know Miriam had been released," he replies. "I'd hoped for a reunion in the hospital."

  
"And that's precisely why she was transferred to another facility after you arrived. She'll only ever have a desk job, thanks to you, but that's better for our purposes."

  
"There's that pronoun again. Our. We. What makes you think Will and I are going to help you?"

  
The barrel twitches again. "I would hope you'd do it for Margot. But I'm not naive. I came here with other things to offer."

  
"Another crossroads bargain, Alana?"

  
"Money and silence. To get out of the country, you're going to need money, which I can provide plenty of, in cash. And right now, you need my silence on your whereabouts."

  
"I have money. And as for your silence," he sits forward, sending her foot to the floor and her pistol to shoulder height in a practiced reflex, "there are ways to obtain that too."

  
Lips compress into a single scarlet gash. "Don't forget who has the gun." It wouldn't be accurate to say she hisses, but it's certainly the lowest, most threatening tone either man has ever heard from her.

  
"If you still think that's where your power comes from, perhaps you haven't become as wise as I thought." Hannibal takes in the haute couture lines of her pantsuit. "You certainly look the part, but what cloth are you cut from?"

  
"You should know. You cut me from it." Alana gazes wistfully at Will, a second stretching into a few. "You know, they used to call it the love that dare not speak its name. I may not understand much of what goes on inside your head, but I think I understand why it took five years for you to dare."

  
"You already had your chance," Will comes back. "With _both_ of us."

  
"Very funny."  She leans in. "Are you aware that the FBI still officially considers you a hostage?"

  
"Does anyone believe that?"

  
"I doubt it. But that's what the news will say. The respectable outlets, anyway. It's a small mercy for your family, but it's something. My point is that I can make your life together very easy or I can make it very difficult. That's all up to you."

  
"Congratulations, Will. I don't think you've ever been privy to this side of Alana before."

  
Alana rises and edges around to the back of the chair. "Do you remember the cafe you used to take me to, Hannibal?"

  
"I do."

  
"The two of you will meet me there at eight o'clock tomorrow morning and I'll give you everything I have on this case. If you don't show up, I call the police. And if you run, well, I've already found you twice. No reason I can't do it again." She begins to back away. "Meeting in a public place is safer for me, but riskier for you. Go straight to the alcove by the side. Don't stick your necks out."

  
"I'd be more concerned with having a leg to stand on," says Bedelia.

  
"I'm sorry," the other woman offers. "I didn't think you would still be alive."

  
"Oh, it's all right. I'm not expecting a rescue. I wouldn't offer one in your position."

  
Alana meets and searches her eyes. "I believe you."

  
Her head moves slightly. "Goodbye, Will." At the door, she hesitates one last time. "Please. Help her."

  
Then their old friend turns and walks into the sodium vapor fog outside.

  
"I feel like I should be offended," says Hannibal.


End file.
